The Ewe (Poetry)

 There is a spot in the grass, where once a girl lay.

The ewe remembers the girl’s feet kicking up

dirt and stones as she ran through the 

Night, from horrors

a sheep cannot even imagine. The sheep

remembers the terror in her face, 

which is something so universal in animals,

blood pouring from 

wounds desperately attempting to knit themselves back together in time.

A wooden spear clutched in her hand,

dirt on her face

red hair braided in the wind behind her.

And the ewe remembers her falling with the arrow in her back,

Face first in the muddy soil.

The ewe remember the smell of flesh in the area,

then the white stones which slowly sunk beneath the dirt and grass

and now the sheep eats from the spot each time she sees it’s grown over again. 

The ewe hopes the girl will one day rise up and continue to run,

and the ewe knows she will have an easier time 

if the grass has not grown up above her.