The Sheep

They scuttle in cliques

Like small flocks of sheep.

They bay with wobbly voices,

Discussing life like the weather.

They say they are unified

But actions betray their

Gathering and chattering.

They don’t welcome the newcomers

Unless they act like them.

I slumber like a black bear,

Awaiting the end of the flock

To rumble to my car.

I won’t stay with the sheep

But wander on my own,

Safe with the wisdom

Of solitude and wariness.

 

© 2017 Valerie Hathaway

 

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