Wool gathering

After a busy day around home we set off to try and locate a starling roost I'd heard about up in the hills.

The designated footpath shown on the map seemed to have been obliterated so we slogged through several soggy upland sheep pastures pocked with sharp hoofprints. As we ascended, so the sun dipped down to the horizon at our backs. The last rays found Casey contemplating a fenceful of felted wool with one of several ovine skulls gleaming in the gloaming. Its living fellows ran from us as they sought what little shelter there was for the frosty night to come. The gibbous moon turned from white to silver as the sky grew dark.

We failed to find the starling roost so bent our steps back to the road and headed home in the twilight for the hearty supper described by Guinea Pig Zero.



Thousands of sheep, soft-footed, black-nosed sheep--
one by one going up the hill and over the fence--one by
one four-footed pattering up and over--one by one wiggling
their stub tails as they take the short jump and go
over--one by one silently unless for the multitudinous
drumming of their hoofs as they move on and go over--
thousands and thousands of them in the grey haze of
evening just after sundown--one by one slanting in a
long line to pass over the hill--

I am the slow, long-legged Sleepyman and I love you
sheep in Persia, California, Argentine, Australia, or
Spain--you are the thoughts that help me when I, the
Sleepyman, lay my hands on the eyelids of the children
of the world at eight o'clock every night--you thousands
and thousands of sheep in a procession of dusk making
an endless multitudinous drumming on the hills with
your hoofs.

Carl Sandburg