Sabra has made a splash in S. Agata. We go out for our ealrly morning walks and chat with the old folks along the way. It is a ritual that I find enjoy and find particularly comforting; a sort of daily embrace by the local comunity. Naturally, these old men and women have lived with all sorts of farm animals, but never have they seen anything quite like Sabra. Watching them watch her train, performing tricks or chasing the ball, is like observing children at the circus; their amusement and wonder is a delight to see.
The latest ‘old friend’ to make our aquaintance is Gianfranco. About 75 years old, he lives with his wife on the Panoramica which overlooks the old town. I met him this morning and he said that he had written a poem about Sabra. He hurried to his house and returned with a scroll of white paper tied with a red ribbon. I asked him if he would read it aloud. In a proud and slightly embarrassed voice he slowly pronounced:
