an urban pastoral

Exactly a week after the birth of the buka, my father was sitting on the front balcony (the verandah, he called it), watching the ongoing construction of a six-storey high rise going up in my neighborhood. He'd built houses in his youth, but he'd never seen a construction like that. A white pick-up truck pulled up across the street. From the scratching of sharp claws or hooves, he knew there was a large animal in the back, what looked like a big white dog. It turned out to be a big white sheep. The driver of the truck led her out to the empty lot across from my house (which some clever opportunist has sparsely cultivated with tomatoes and squash), where she proceeded, much to my dad's amazement, to give birth to three little lambs. Two of them stood right up and wobbled all around; the third, the runt, may or may not have ever found its feet. The man stayed with them all afternoon, encouraging them to walk, and nurse. By night, they were gone.