Having nibbled the beautiful ears this week, we tug up the last patch of sweet corn stalks, thump off dirt, hurl rustling armloads in the truck, wheel it to the sheep pen. The flock looks doubtful. They back off, clicking their hooves on the stones. Eyes of fear transmute as we wave stalk wands, heap the mass over the fence, here there, as they rush there, here, line up like fat sacks.
We hear the laundromat of their mouths, all on wash cycle. They turn over new leaves, start the change of silk to wool, tassels to tails, poor ears to black ones, flicking at flies and gnats.