Let's leave "John Clare," and go to where I live,
or another place that I live.
I live about 10 sa--
I live about 10 miles outside of Ellensburg,
and it's a farming district.
And there's a hill behind me that's called Hayward Hill.
In the fall, they used to-- they don't do it as frequently now,
but they used to grow corn there during the summer.
And in the fall, they would bring in sheep,
and they would glean the corn.
They just keep them there late into the fall,
and then move them to another place.
And my neighbor had dogs, and I had dogs.
Dogs and sheep should not be in close proximity,
and this is what happened.
This is called "The Deaths on Hayward Hill."
"My neighbor breathes in deeply, and I suppose,
it is the dead dog, the dead and injured sheep he thinks of,
and the herder to be paid.
At the top of Hayward Hill, we stand outside a makeshift pen.
Two dozen youths huddle, rocking drowsily like boats.
Clear fluids gather at their bloody necks and drip.
Across the road, the rams watch, amble toward the fence
to lie down, round side by round side,
a freeze in the halls of the final courts of judgment.
All day I have struggled against sleep.
Now, I give in easily.
I imagine the dead dog as he sails forward
and a pure brutality of play, whose outcome
will be the death of sheep, but free of the mildest rancor.
Again, he rises higher in the ark.
This time, he turns as though called,
and the lead burns through his side.
The maimed sheep hang their heads.
The purple of their raw flesh robes in the kingdoms of pain.
I need to believe joy also has its power."