The sheep are browsing, keeping the flock’s design
by bleating gently, ranged in the taut sunshine
along the rocky slopes to the timberline.
Through lofty branches high on the birch and fir
the winds above them pass and in haste recur
with sigh and shuffle joining the sound and stir.
But skyward mutely, crowned in the golden light,
the peak arises, giving within the sight
a pattern: bleating slope to the silent height.