Everyman's Pasture Pastor

My senses are a little out of whack this morning. I can’t put my finger on it exactly, but something isn’t right. Were I an alarmist, I might be hell-bent for a neurologist’s office, knocking down anyone lacking the brains or dexterity to get out of my way. But, I am not, so here I sit like a dog patiently and obediently listening as his master performs a card trick. Then, precisely at the right moment, just as he reveals the Queen of Spades that magically disappeared from the deck, I look into his approving eyes and say, “Woof!”

Everything smells of sheep. The dandelions are suddenly more sheep than flower, each petal reflecting wool and the sound of a bell ringing off the yellow. But the thing that smells the most like sheep, is the very sun itself. When the sun goes behind a cloud, the smell of the sheep decreases, like standing on some old guy’s hearing aid, and when the sun comes back out again, the smell of the sheep is loud, like a clap of thunder inside a cup of coffee.