Wearing the Green

Under a fading Celtic moon, half a coin left over from last night, my sheep are feasting on pasture lush and wild with turkeys’ wings. A titmouse chick-a-dees from an oak that’s spring-fresh green. On hands and knees, I harvest Indian lettuce for a salad. Do sheep wonder at my human foraging? I’ll come back home wearing colors of the field, muddy knees grass-stained; I’m hungry to savor my tiny isle of green.