by Katie Phillips

I watched the sheep

            munch the grass

                         in one field.

They moved into another

            field, and I watched them

                         there until only two

were left at the gate

            and then even they ran

                         down the hill. I watched

the mountain and she watched

            me. We moved through space,

                         never closer, never farther.

When I couldn't see

            the sheep anymore

                          I closed my eyes

and listened to them call

            to each other over the sprinkler

                         and the sound of the planet,

the wind through

             the trees—first the pears,

                          then the apples.


Katie Phillips has worked as a hotel housekeeper, a laundromat attendant, a magazine telemarketer, a library clerk, and a church administrator. She lives (and writes, works, bikes, and walks dogs) in southern Illinois with her husband and their dog. Her work has been published by The Sow’s Ear Poetry ReviewPittsburgh Poetry Review, and Cider Press Review, among others. Katie's chapbook “Driving Montana, Alone” was published in 2010 by Slapering Hol Press, and the title poem was later read by Garrison Keillor on NPR's The Writer's Almanac.