The fallen leaves are edged with lace, each frozen blade of grass with a tiny dew jewel at its tip. Dahlia petals break like thin glass.
Through the icy drifting dew, the sun is a soft yellow fuzz, resting in the tree tops. Opposite it, high in the western sky the moon is a shaved snowball.
Zip crouches in the barn waiting for Zinnia to pounce. They do a little dance circling each other then quickly lose interest.
They seem to not notice the change in temperature.
A striated glaze of ice covers the chicken’s water bowl. The barnyard gate is frozen shut. The sheep’s wool is curled stiff with from the hard frost.
I bring out two leaves of hay and they all eat it, even the older ewes who would rather graze on grass that is barely there.