Black Sheep

By David Sterry

England is mist-shrouded, cloud-thick, green under gray as we drive through Jane Eyre country, and if you listen hard enough you can almost hear Heathcliff cry, “CAAAAAAAAAAAATHY” across the craggy moors flexing their rugged muscles.  Sheep graze glazed-over in a field chomp chomp chomping whitely.  A ewe sitting on a stone wall stares into the infinite beyond like a fleecy buddah.  One black sheep stands off in the corner all by himself, wearing dark shades and smoking an unfiltered cigarette, muttering under his breath about what a raw deal he keeps getting, looking for trouble.  That would be me if I were a sheep I thought as it started to rain.


Copyright ©  2002 David Sterry. All Rights Reserved. Used With Permission.