sheep Girl

She held the flock, terrified, eyes abulge,
Huddled and frantic, tight as a knot
At the edge of Indian Highway 160
Fronting the big truckers balling that jack,
Throwing fists of rusty gravel
At the bellwether helter-skelter.
Her two Rez dogs nipped the laggards’ heels
So the fold held close on the threshold.

Thin and long and maybe fifteen
Willowy and ivory smooth
Her blue jeans tight on filly hips.
Awhirl, her long black hair,
Her neck all snap and pivot.
As she watched the trucks come hurtling
Then the sheep
Then the trucks come hurtling.

Then through a break in the careening rush
She bolted like a frightened colt
All knees and wild elbows
The Rez dogs springing and wailing
So the fold held close
And made the other side.

And I only just caught it
If caught it aright I did
Out the rear view mirror.
The Navajo sheep girl
All Indian, real Indian
Here on the Big Rez Crossing 160 and swallowed by the night.
Lost to the cowboy’s July Fourth charade,
Unsullied by fireworks and revival tent Jesus.

From Mountain Wizard, by Thomas J. Phalen.