All night, he’ll hear them bleat. They’ll come right up to his walls torip the long grass right out from under the A frame.
In the morning he’ll open the door and send them skittering.
This will go on for weeks. A punk green spot on every fleece.
The bleating and tearing will get into his dreams.
They’ll rush the pick-up truck. The farmer’s son in his flat cap,
smoking a cigar because it’s a Sunday, throwing feed and straw from the bed.
Sometimes they’ll talk.
For men of few words, they’ll have a lot to say.