That old valley was too narrow —

too dark for larks and for sparrows

who overflew the shadowy village,

neither stopping to peck nor to pillage,

but just wondering who worshipped

shadow more than sunshine.

It was too early to be dark
-even in winter
-even at this latitude.

A cloud of cataclysm drifted overland.

A distant hilltop remained illuminated,
the dirty gray sheep’s wool and green grass
warmed by yellow light.

But the shadow line glided nearer,
climbing the hill with steady purpose,
soon it would swallow the hilltop and its grazing sheep.

They’d become the dream sheep counted to fall asleep.

But no one was going to sleep this time of day
-cloud or no cloud.