I lie on the sloping hillside;
damp grass tickles my neck.
I hear the bleating beasts kibitz
as dogs keep them in check.

My eyes closed to the azure dome,
until eyelids grow dim.
I open wide to see the sky,
and note that it grows grim.


It's time to consult my sheepdog,
"Should we beat it, or stay?"

He barks to me, "Now can't you see,
the clouds 're dirty wool gray?"

"I see it clearly as my hand,
but what does that shade mean?"

"It means you're not a shepherd, and
you may need the latrine."