There are not often
Rocky Mountain Big Horned Sheep
On the drive to my Father’s house.
I am caring for his cat, while he is out of town
Caring for his sister.
And so twice daily, I make the trip across the foothills
To the base of the craggy and pine-waved mountain he lives under.
I take the long way, because while
There are not often
Rocky Mountain Big Horned Sheep
On the drive to my Father’s house
A few blessed days,
You will see them.
Under a sail of red rocks jutting from the hills,
A flock of them, walking their intentional steps on uneven surfaces
Grazing in the sunrise.
And when you see them, I hope that you,
As I did,
Will activate the hazard lights and pull to the side of the road,
As if arrested by the sight.
I hope you will get out of the car and wave wildly to the other drivers.
I hope you will point and shout and gesticulate franticly toward these divine beasts,
Like some mad prophet of the Ovine.
Many will not stop or see.
Many will seem merely confused.
But some will pull to the side of the road to look with you.
How lovely it is to have taken the scenic route
And to have seen and shared this morning with
The Rocky Mountain Big Horned Sheep,
Who are often not there.