When the outside thermometer hit 100 degrees, I thought of the old sheep out in the barnyard. This heat is rough on me, and I felt for them. I went out to check on the water and brought my camera. I know that to capture photos like these, you cannot simply walk out to the sheep and shoot. They won’t sit still for that. I am learning to be thoughtful about my photos, and George Forss has taught me much about that. But this was different.

I have been going outside two or three times a day in the heat to get the sheep comfortable with me and the camera, edging closer each time. When I get too close, they jump up. Sometimes a noise stirs them. The sun was blistering today, and I thought if I want to see the sheep and capture the feeling of these old ones, spending their last summer here on grass, I had to be one. This afternoon was so still. The chickens were hiding under a lilac bush, taking shade. The barn cats were asleep in the barn. The dogs were inside the house, gulping water, being still.

I sat there for an hour, and at first they got up, and then they began to forget me, accept me and position themselves naturally. I lay down on the ground and sat still. I was sweating so profusely that I couldn’t see the viewfinder and I didn’t want to move and get a towel so I put the camera on automatic and was shooting blind. Then I just started to roll around and shoot, one at a time. I moved one or two feet, then stopped. I was completely accepted, more than before.  I was rewarded, I think, for this. In my head, I became a sheep. Maybe this is why they saw me as one. I understand being still against the heat, conserving myself, although I wished for the covering they had. Something to put between me and that blinding sun.

Yet I loved every minute of it. I would not have wished to be anywhere else, not even cool.

None of them moved away from me this time, even though I saw they were all watching me. He is a sheep, I think they have concluded. No need to run. He hasn’t brought his little red dog. He is no danger.  I got in sync with their slow and even breathing. Their incredible stillness. Their powerful and instinctive sense of community. The smell. The sound of the flies, buzzing ominously in their clouds.  Their acceptance of their circumstance. I see that photography is a physical art. You can’t just point things. You have to think, move,  know what you are shooting, sometimes become what you are shooting. I was dizzy and soaked when I got up. I lay down in an air-conditioned bedroom but couldn’t be still until I looked at my photos. They were earned, and I was pleased. To see one, be one. The old sheep are teaching me their old sheep lessons.

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