The sheep does not mind much —
not even the necessary attention to his wounds,
ragged bite marks on his neck
from an old dog ricocheted
back to wildness
by the archaic scent of prey.
The sheep and his brother are Zen masters
of the barnyard, accepting
rain and grass and first aid
with the same slow breath and placid stare.
They swallow the world whole
in a way we have forgotten,
who cannot see a rainbow arc
across a summer sky without
unprisming it into white light,
into something we think we understand.