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Have you seen the sheep that graze
in thousands on the western hills?
They feed there as a scattered flock.
Then, suddenly, gathering, they move
like small, wind driven wisps of cloud,
which, when gathered,
pour bleating down the slopes.
And each bleat is a loud complaint
directed at the dogs,
those marvels of obedience who,
following the herder’s call,
or word, or hand or whistle,
run busily about,
butting, nipping, barking
and so compel them to come in.

But these are sheep without a shepherd.