I dreamed that I was a Sheepherder…
My dream overflowed with hope, I was tired, the dogs rested; the flock hungry, bleating throats, a fading moon. I led the sheep through a field of scarlet poppies to green grasslands. The sheep pull the grass from its roots, the paling tendrils wilted and died, the day moves on, I am high upon a half reaped ground that I knew would soon turn fallow, but the sheep would thrive. Then sun lowered itself behind the mountain the day is ending. Before long a small fire will be lit sparks will rise into the night, and I will speak of gypsy lore to my only friends, the dogs.
Beyond the fire, the poppies meld like a purple maze into a black star scattered night. A glimpse of the future lies within my dreams, a glimpse of tomorrow. I am tired, the dogs all resting; the flock all feed, no bleating throats, I am alone under a fading moon and one dog stands silently while the night fades into another day, and I think… happiness is the lost paradise.
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[This writing is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.]
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Elizabeth Ann Johnson-Murphree