Cabrito

She naps in her own dish, not something that I wish to even think about. She’s such a little doll; completely in her thrall, I watch her climbing out. Her hair is soft as silk. She loves her mother’s milk; of that, there is no doubt. From barn to sleep at night, to meadow at first light, she walks a well-worn route. Exploring all around, and leaping with a bound, she’s quite the little scout. I’d rather eat an eel, than have her as a meal; I’d sure feel like a lout.