Strays

Lost sheep are hard to count, they appear most in an unlived life, bleating at the distant edge of a storm. Often there are too many voices, all speaking from the same cramped space. He has to listen, while the sheep encircle, they have disjointed minds, the babble drains him as he sleeps. Eventually a window breaks the night, stray thoughts plod away one by one. He needs wool for his comb, a washed face in an unwashed mirror must be masked, the mind gathered in from its nocturnal wanderings. He will bind both ears tightly to the rooted earth.