Costel Iarca © 2008 All Rights Reserved
The sheep are moving away across this meadow,
not out of curiosity, not to give practice to heart, no,
they are moving toward the oak trees, toward fading
out of view and into someone elseís future and
Iím starting to shiver when the last sheep,
the small one, the black-legged one, jumps up
all limbs off the ground, hangs there trembling
above the strip of space between it and its shadow,
as the second to last sheep looks back over its white shoulder.
Kathleen Boyle lives and writes in San Francisco. She works as a Public Defender.
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