Toward the Fold by Sue Churchill

Toward the Fold

Midwinter, midmorning, midrange

on the thermometer, after the spate

of single digit nights, snow sifts,

fog rises off the river. Then, over the earth,

gnawed for seed, over the old bones

of fall rendered to slivers,

comes an ear ripping cry, a volley.

The pack, crept up from the ravine,

under slack barbed wire, skirts

the cliff, pours itself down

the big hill, toward our fold,

the protected spot in the slope.

 

Our six choice hens at once root,

on alert.  The ewes, near to lambing

align flank to flank, the boldest,

who know and throw their weight

around the flock, now take their stand

at the front, come what may. But

the big dogs, Dinah and Wren, ever-on-duty,

hurl themselves toward the sound, its self-betrayal.

Only half-humanized, they dwarf

their coyote cousins and even so

outnumbered, repel the menace.

 

The wild world hungers on.