I looked past the fence, toward the lopsided house, where stood a woman with a sack, a pail in calloused hand, her head leaned slightly back. From behind her skirt, a goat with precocious beard and hanging ears looked up at her as though to hear. He seemed to feast with eye and ear, and showed it with a bleat. And she, with downward look, considered the humble beast. The scene so spoke with fervent tone, I almost knew her heart within my own, and felt kindly toward the goat— weak, hungry maybe, but not alone. I watched them with delight, a lovely pair. Through thicket, out of sight, I saw the workings of her face, and his subservient plight. Though too far to hear her voice, her words I thought I heard, and heard them better than the goat, who felt, but never understood. “What ails you, little one, how may I help? Your pasture grass is green, its blades are young and sweet. Your water too is fresh and clean.” “What is it that you seek? What’s tugging at your heart? Your limbs are strong, and beautiful you are.” “Are you not happy with the view— the flowers, mountains too. The other day, through fence you squeezed, To eat the corn, not just a few.” “Have I not long supplied your food, protected you from dog and poacher, even scratched your ears and head? Would you rather have another master?” Then the goat with sheepish eyes cowered behind her skirt, as if to say, “I ask too much, I’ll just lie here in the dirt. With you I’ll stay, content today, your grace and mercy share. All my days I’ll be your goat, And count upon your care.” Then I went along my way, her eyes in me on him alone, her voice still clear inside. Perhaps I knew her heart within my own.