1
On Ishawooa Hills
I lost the trail,
came down through sage
and drying wallows
the wild herds had beaten to mud.
On the open edge of Carter Mountain --
butcher-knife knicking
at bales of cloud --
mountain sheep sprawled like cats;
they soaked in scattershot hail.
One ram turned solemnly to regard me
with the flat gold eyes of all sheep.
2
All the sheep in for winter pastured
just north or town, harvested beet
and barley fields they churned to rags.
Cold sun -- Carter Mountain laser --
cut outlines of oily winter wool,
sheep running through their own halos
or from me
as if I had the shears,
the gun.
Dust leapt with their hoofs, the entire
flock pressing the far fenceline,
the fields blown rootless.
-- Cara Chamberlain