The Shepherdess

by Molly Vogel

The staves steady under foot; she knows which to avoid. A creature of habit, the kettle warms. Steam rises, curls the end wisps about her face. The old night dress illuminates her nakedness, skin smells of ewe’s milk. It’s late; and the children are sleeping. Breath carried away in tufts. Everything is done in earnest purpose, learned through divination, through feeling around the dark. A corner is settled on, the fire stoked. Bedding laid down, and a pair of shears at arm’s length. In this most tender of mercies, we seek out aloneness, like the sheep. To bear the world, we are borne away.