The deflated balloon of her skin slung low under the jawbone after her quadruplets were born, so we gave her red cell, buckets of grain, fresh water. Queenie recovered, ran in the pasture, played with her kids, nestled in straw to sleep, submitted to the tugs and pats of our children. But on the darkest day of the year, she collapsed. I have come to believe our goat died not from pregnancy or its subsequent anemia, but from winter and its violent lack of light. I whisper prayers to my son while we watch my husband pile smiling Amazon boxes on her cold body. The red tongue of fire ascends the pyre. Chickens huddle. Tomorrow’s ash heap will be rare offering among fields silent with snow. The chickens won’t know it came from burning the dead. Clucking in celebration, they’ll fluff their feathers and burrow in blessing. Like strange winter flowers, they’ll blossom from dust.