Not Far From Cokeville

Rolls of old hay sink into poor neighbors, that flock of winter worn sheep, not yet sheared. A first slow rain on snow and spring runs off, unfaithful, headed south like us. Nothing keeps us here. A waste to turn this ground again, its rotten spent grain. Let’s argue about what’s uneaten, now squandered. Why bother barter—too-little too-late? Time enough the moldering hay may acquire some use. The dung-encrusted, tick-laced sheep are still digging holes all of their own. Can we ask to what end? We glimpse sheep and grass, no one up to much, no thought to abandon earth to us, trailing our sad, god-awful stink.