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.