*A couple of months in charge of a farm, one cat, cows, and 25 sheep… only important things are happening here…
The tittle is the last thing to write. I think. The cat waiting in front of the window. Wooden smell. Noise of branches in the balcony. I have cold feet, calloused fingers over the strings and wooden smells, smells like wood. Today scattered sheep. Today the yellow tree was empty of leaves. Today hot teas, honey teas, milk teas, and moisten mornings teas.
Today the sheep were scattered… 22.. 23.. 24.. and -almost- 25… one is missing the ear, because -almost- was eaten by the wolf.
Rain. No need to go out – just watch them from the window… but I go out and is warm. I wear rubber boots for not get dirty but sheep shit is not like human shit… no… we humans consume from everything, sheep no. I wear rubber boots that smell like farm, big big wool socks… so the feet don’t get frozen, and the boots fit better, borrowed things.
Today the sheep were scattered along the river… they come if I call them… maah maah… If I bring a bucket with leftovers… or a bucket with fruits -but not apples-, or a bucket with nothing because they don’t know is empty. The one without ear goes and comes, and jump with confidence. The wolf gave it this freedom.
They come, we haven’t introduce ourselves. maah.. maaah… They don’t want to know my name, age, where I was from?… hoo sin poorly educated sheep maah… maah… with their curious stares… they don’t talk about politics, jobs, neither about God, or how much grass have eaten today, or how dad sheep left mom sheep…
The teapot on fire. Hands warm up on a side, a metallic screech, the cat is hungry, burn toast smell, marmalade. Look without attention, looking everything but in nothing. I am witness of my own days, I spy them from the garden between the branches of Pohutukawa and lemon. Is the guitar witnessing the music that it’s playing? but the guitar is not happy or sad because the melodies that plays. From here a fresh smell, grass just cut, rain in the soil.
23.. 24.. 25.. Sheep.