chris is a fourth generation sheep shearer,
who speaks in a shout regardless of environment,
as if always a bleet and the buzz of clippers were in his ear,
as if always he had to talk over a lamb, through the wool.
there was rain hitting hard against the barn's ceiling,
as we clammered over the ewes and grabbed one at a time,
a handful of sweater,
the sweet odor of lanolin and fear.
now lambs and ewes are alike,
same sized:
small and round bellied,
bleating into the water,
into the spring.
