Gideon Stands Guard

The moon, a charcoal smudge, hangs low and dim, while stars, like pinpricks, pierce the black night. Clicking crickets creates a raucous hymn, and katydids whir on new wings to take flight. A yellow bulb's honeyed glow makes a homey sheen until a timer flicks a switch turning off the light and letting darkness rush into the tranquil scene, making baby goats bleat from fright. In the corner lays a lumpy carpet of fur made by mamma goats cuddling nice and tight; making the entire goat herd an entangled blur of white rumps and necks entwined in the night. Except for little Gideon, who stands in the barn door; a castrated pygmy goat turned into a withered grazer, stares at the house below without a snort or a snore, as he chews his cud, thinking about some tormentor. Why else stand guard?