That late summer, as we were preparing to leave the river,
my brother noticed a baby goat, black in color,
being swept down toward the rapids.

He quickly embraced it in his arms
and pulled it to the shore.

We were all in shock at the sight of this small beauty,
appearing out of nowhere.

We wanted to keep him,
but our father said he thought he knew
who the goat might belong to.
Most folks out there knew each other.

We pet the goat
and fed it water and carrots.
We prayed it didn’t have a home,
but our own.

When the farmer and his wife came to get it,
with their small daughter,
we knew it was good to let it go.

They were so relieved,
their little girl in tears.

The goat’s name was Bucky,
we learned.