Drafting the kids

It's the time of year for separation.
The fecund from the barren.
Those to be eaten from those that are to be saved for breeding.
For the wooly members of our community it is into these two flocks.
A little looking about for estranged offspring by nursing ewes.
But interest is not maintained longer than the udder discomfort.

For the nannies and kids the separation is a greater wrench.
Bleating pitifully, straining against the leads with blue tongues bulging, choking
The young are dragged, pushed and with tails twisted, almost carried to their separate paddocks.
For escapees that brave the electric and barb, it is into the jug of the goat shed.

For two days we hear them crying.
Each new morning brings their bawling growing more feeble and  hoarse.
By day three their mothers no longer return their pathetic bleats and return to grazing unperturbed.
So just when we suspect that they may have succumbed to their own misery they are released.
Cautiously they move around their new flock.
Have heads butted by the more dominant.
Then find their own niche.