The sheep are sitting in the next pasture
Clumped together in the grass,
That thick, rich carpet they eat for breakfast.
I see them sitting in a loose circle
By the fence, a ewe stands apart.
I approach her slowly;
She holds her ground.
We face each other, the fence between.
Her coat, an ancient ivory
Flecked with gray, curls tightly wound.
Our eyes meet.
Hers slitted onyx, mine round,
We gaze at one another
The ewe, me.
And then, no fence.
Who is staring here at whom?
Which is me, which is ewe?
A sudden gust of wind, I blink and
She blinks too, and dances off;
I turn and come inside.
To this room where
We sit clumped together,
Mute, chewing our thoughts.
Forming our own loose circle
On the gray carpet,
Flecked with ivory, woven tight,
of fine English wool.