Sheep pressed crystalled wool-to-wool, eyes
riveted on shadow, crackle, dark
night trees beyond the fence line. Something
moves. Brave Dorset, snorting steam,
stamps her warning in the snow.
Great white sheepdog, giant in the moonlight,
leaping starward, biting air, chases
sky gods on the hilltop, coldly
indifferent to his timorous wards’ plight.
Gray stone the size and shape of
a cat's skull, though heavier, presses
cold against my palm. Eyes closed, I
become listening. The stone
arcing from my hand becomes
a god in flight and the dark wood shadow
yelps and bounds away, crashing
to silence through the underbrush.
Laughter rimes the hilltop. The dog howls in shame.