mother bleats a cloud, standing over its dead lamb -- ringed by a murder
cowbells clang, the bleating flock trots up a dusty road; the rising dust plume seen before the goats
On our Great Lakes of Kashmir trek this past summer, one night our campsite was across the creek from a maximum security sheep prison. I kid you not. At all hours of the night, beams of light would cut through our tent as roving guards made their rounds. And there was the occasional shrill whistle when the inmates would get out of line.