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.