DKG Fine Arts Gallery
Feed My Sheep
By Janet S McCaskey ,CO © email@example.com
In the moonlight of a morning in the 40’s
you jingle the oats to call them,
the wire of the old gallon paint can cold
seeping through your glove.
You tip the rim of the can and sling the feed
down the trough in one lithe movement—
just in time to leap out of the trample.
The smell of wool lines your nostrils.
Their souls engrossed in chomping,
you wedge yourself back in amongst them,
pull off a two-thumbed glove by the empty thumb,
lift a nip of sweet dry seed from the trough to your own tongue,
and knuckle their hard bone skulls to your heart’s content.
Your fingers lose themselves deep in the oily wool.
If you’ve put enough dried molasses in the mix,
even the mean old buck will let you
thumb his acorn-sized horns a bit—
but only for a moment before he butts you off.