The calm of your wool, your resting postures, hooves tucked under.
Behind you, roiling waves pound, whitecaps against stones.
Your eyes have been closed for a hundred and forty seven years.
But you seem not to fear what is coming. You curl in repose.
Pink velvet of your ears echoing the pink tips of the grasses.
People have always been shepherds for sheep, but I’d like
To let you lead. Quiet depth, a measured gentleness.
Here in a museum in Washington, DC.