Maya and I walked down to the farmyard as the sun was setting, down the trail, through the golden bamboo grove, past OwlMan, through the garden, past the chicken yard, up the hill, down the farm road, and into the little pasture where the five fluffy sheep were clustered together in the chilly breeze. After a few minutes watching the sheep, we went over to the pigs and admired the dozen babies of one mama and then the teenaged group in the next pen. Meanwhile a little Banty rooster was crowing in a scratchy, high-pitched voice and following us around. We watched some hens settle down on top of a box. No farm workers were in sight, and the animals were all making their noises. Swallows dipped and swooped.
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