A little while

On the southern tip of Wales, I petted a sheep. I stole a piece of its wool and stashed it in my pocket. The wool is still there. Sometimes, I stick my hand in my coat and it comes out smelling like a cold thing trying to keep warm or Saint David’s Cathedral in the rain.

I wish I could be a shepherd for a little while. I would wander green hills with the sea wind stinging my face and wet dirt under my feet. After a long day, aching and expanded and full of good air, I would return to the village to drink my tea and eat my bread, chutney and cheese. Maybe, on Sunday, I would attend Mass and pray for my sheep. 

The bucolic ideal is hardly ever what it seems. But maybe it could be, at least for a little while.