It immersed itself into the world with a feeble cry, as if it were acutely aware of its vulnerability. The eyes were shut against the morning's pallid light. It unconsciously exacerbated the mess of a creature that lay in the comfort of straw and grass.

Blood soaked its minute legs, and the fur was matted with texture from the mother's womb. The sight was garish, and it held no sentimentality or pride. It was another machination of life, a product of what was expected of the mother.

The ewe flapped its bedraggled ears, bleating its sombre song of melancholy anticipation.