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Sheep in bulky blankets
Of greasy waterproof wool
Wander on slender black legs.
Gnawing their way through
The waterless pastures of autumn.
Puffing out warm breath into
The cold air, clouds as round
As their thickset bodies.
Apples, the last of the season
Shine like puckered garnets on
The highest branches of
Turn of the century trees.
In winter vestments
I swish against the parched
Weeds and grass.
The sun warm on my face,
My feet cold in the shadows.
Tentatively I touch the
Knobby, woolly back of one sheep
And then another.
I dig my fingers into the heavy
Fleece and bring them back
Soft, lanolined, and musky
With the smell of winter sheep.
Ambiance of the season’s metamorphosing.
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