In the afternoon, in the hot pasture, the sound of flies buzzing so loudly, the old sheep find cool places to lie, leaning against stones, tubs of water. I stand with them, and I hear them whispering to me. There are no sounds, apart from the flies and the sound of the sheep breathing slowly and heavily. It is so still. Life does not disturb them. I hear them whispering to me:

We ask nothing of you, they say, nothing at all.

We are tired and past the business of sheep – running around,

plowing into each other,

being afraid,

rushing from blade of grass to blade of grass, frantic, skittish.

We are not  frantic or skittish.

You can see there is peace at last in our last summer,

or last days on grass, our last days in the world.

We do not know the language and stories of humans, we our senses

are keen and we know where we are going, what is happening,

and we have found rest.

We are taking care of each other. We are each one,

all that the others have. Perhaps that is the story of sheep.

Life has given us a last summer on grass. We accept it.