The Goat’s Eyes

The Goat’s Eyes

I go to the stone wall
   to call the goats
        not from my need
        nor from theirs,
        to be with them.

A herd gathers under the bent apple tree
   soft nickering does
   curiosity in their low-tone bells
   swinging bags of dwindling milk
   over dimpled apples
   we bathe in sunshine
   their wild eyes slit to what comes
   in genes full
   of the wandering people
   nine thousand years
   by their side.

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