Mark Doty, poet

I stumbled on a mention of the following poem in a review of Mark Doty's most recent book, What Is the Grass: Walt Whitman in My Life. Pescadero is a town about 80 miles north of here, on the coast. We've visited it a couple of times. More specifically, we've visited Harley Goat Farms, which I have an inkling inspired this poem. It's delightful. I love goats. (My pre-marriage name is Geissman, meaning goatherd. Nuff said.)

Pescadero

The little goats like my mouth and fingers,

and one stands up against the wire fence, and taps on the fence board
a hoof made blacker by the dirt of the field,

pushes her mouth forward to my mouth,
so that I can see the smallish squared seeds of her teeth, and the bristle-whiskers,

and then she kisses me, though I know it doesn’t mean “kiss,”

then leans her head way back, arcing her spine, goat yoga,
all pleasure and greeting and then good-natured indifference: she loves me,

she likes me a lot, she takes interest in me, she doesn’t know me at all
or need to, having thus acknowledged me. Though I am all happiness,

since I have been welcomed by the field’s small envoy, and the splayed hoof,
fragrant with soil, has rested on the fence board beside my hand.

 *

Here's some goats:

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The last time I posted Covid-19 statistics was 8/28, eight days ago. Today's numbers are these: 8,439 confirmed cases (up 820 since 8/28); 507 hospitalizations (up 32); deaths 58 (up 3). Maybe we're slowing down? But no end in sight yet.

At least there are dancing goats to remind us that the world is still full of delight.

Stay safe.