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People always ask,
they know your voice;
they follow you?
I am not Jesus
and these sheep follow
an old drywall bucket with feed
that I shake
while yelling, Eh Woolly Woolly,
hoping they’ll follow me.
They ignore me
then one by one stare
stark-faced at the pail
until some ewe baas,
runs.
Dennis and Mike herd from behind,
sprawled arms waving the way.
They chase me
out the gate
past the pines
down the hill
a sharp left
into their new pasture,
feed jostles,
ewes bawl,
as if I won’t feed the last ones in.
Not all of them come.
I yell louder,
violently shake the bucket.
Suddenly the rest bolt in,
Mike behind them.
I pour feed in wooden troughs,
burly wool bodies press against my legs.
Dennis closes the gate,
sighs.
Jesus must have been talking about
some different breed,
ours are biblical but old testament.
After we’ve led them to greener pastures
they crowd in the corner
stressed and shuffling,
like teenagers their first day back at school.
I never much liked their namesake,
Jacob,
that soft skinned mama’s boy
stealing Esau’s birthright.
Maybe the sheep sense it.
No, I tell anyone who asks,
our sheep are not what Jesus had in mind,
but maybe more like us.
Cheryl Denise lives on a sheep farm in the hills near Philippi, West Virginia. A Jacob sheep is a small multi-horned black or lilac sheep with white spots; it is an ancient breed, sometimes referred to as a primitive breed.
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