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Let's leave "John Clare,"
and go to where I live,

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or another place that I live.

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I live about 10 sa--

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I live about 10 miles
outside of Ellensburg,

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and it's a farming district.

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And there's a hill behind me
that's called Hayward Hill.

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In the fall, they used to-- they
don't do it as frequently now,

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but they used to grow corn
there during the summer.

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And in the fall, they
would bring in sheep,

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and they would glean the corn.

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They just keep them
there late into the fall,

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and then move them
to another place.

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And my neighbor had
dogs, and I had dogs.

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Dogs and sheep should not
be in close proximity,

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and this is what happened.

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This is called "The
Deaths on Hayward Hill."

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"My neighbor breathes in
deeply, and I suppose,

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it is the dead dog, the dead
and injured sheep he thinks of,

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and the herder to be paid.

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At the top of Hayward Hill, we
stand outside a makeshift pen.

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Two dozen youths huddle,
rocking drowsily like boats.

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Clear fluids gather at
their bloody necks and drip.

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Across the road, the rams
watch, amble toward the fence

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to lie down, round
side by round side,

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a freeze in the halls of the
final courts of judgment.

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All day I have
struggled against sleep.

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Now, I give in easily.

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I imagine the dead dog
as he sails forward

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and a pure brutality
of play, whose outcome

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will be the death of sheep,
but free of the mildest rancor.

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Again, he rises
higher in the ark.

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This time, he turns
as though called,

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and the lead burns
through his side.

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The maimed sheep
hang their heads.

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The purple of their raw flesh
robes in the kingdoms of pain.

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I need to believe joy
also has its power."

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