A Shepherd Waiting


A Shepherd Waits


The electric lines

sing with a twang.

So we begin the night watch

for new lambs.


It is early in the season yet

so mostly

we hear

bold emptiness.


The loudest silence

I know

is the perfect nothing

of the vigil

before the lambstorm.


We practice observing

what we cannot note,

an apprehension


alive in the vigil,

alive in the ewe,

a perfect unstorm

silent as memory


one bleat

or two

and sometimes three.


But not tonight.

I hear only

the frozen electric on the wire,

the constellations slinging their myths,

and the burping cuds

of the quotidien sheep.

The  shepherd waits

as midwife and husband

beyond time and tide and sleep.


1 Comment

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *