Like all days
There was the sound of the creek in the lower corner of the field,
The tempo of the hooves, growing faster
With the slope of the hill,
The susurrus of wool and flesh,
Accompanied by the chirp of the sunbird,
And the bleat of the flock itself,
Insistent and casual.
There was the shade in the midst of the sun beating down,
The scrub bed carrying on for miles,
Until it met the blue sky in the far distance,
And also a valley of grass as soft as the eyes of an old friend.
Then the sky darkened,
in the East and in the West,
As the lambs arranged the world through shuffles and coos
And the mothers hustled to the call.
Gradually, over time,
a silence crescendoed amongst the flock,
The nighttime hush, and there was,
As there always is,
An expectant sense, and peace.