Aubade with Resurrection

When I come to the edge of the wet-dark pasture 
in the quiet before the chickens and the neighbor’s baby 
wake to make noise, I know the lamb is dead.

The runt of triplets, her head had been small enough 
that she’d learned to slide it through one of the loose gaps 
in the electric fence to reach the clover 

on the other side. Now half the fence lies in a heap 
where she’d tangled in it, then struggled, choking 
while I slept. 

Morning dew collects on her brown fur. 
Her eyes are two black stones. 
I squat in the grass to cradle her still-warm muzzle 

and guide her skull back through the fence 
while the other sheep watch, 
chewing mouthfuls of flowers. 

Once free, I wrap my hands around her neck 
and carry her, hooves swaying, 
to the edge of the pond to be buried. 

Just as I reach it, her throat bobs, the suggestion
of a gulp: a muscle reflex, slight ripple under my palm. 
In my mind, for a fleeting moment, life returning.