From my peaceful mountain, I hear goats bleat in the distance, a strange overlay to the traffic I can now hear. I’ve walked back up from the ravine where mountains on all sides keep out those road noises and where I can still feel isolated, calm, peacefully alone with nature. The goat bleats louder and two baby bleats respond. It is the season, I have seen many shepherds with their goats and sheep on the mountain sides that flank the busy roads I travel. There are cranes and new development all around here on the coast, gradually replacing our natural back drop, so I love seeing these few reamining herds and solitary herders with their dog as only companion, even if between billboards and flags for soon-to-be-built luxury residences. I love the few hillsides left, still Spring green and covered with wildflowers, that nourish these creatures with the mediterranean herbs and grasses that give a special flavor to their milk: milk that gets sent to local co-ops for Manchego, de cabra, mahon, tetilla, Spanish cheeses made from sheep and goats milk in some proportion or another. So bleat mother goat, find your kids, for without them you would not produce milk, and without your milk your commercial reason for being would evaporate and then what become of you?