Sheep at the summit are smoky from sleeping
in fresh-burnt gorse.
East of the Cow Stone, a cow-circle,
one standing, three lying chewing the cud.
They don’t see or scent the dogs.
A flicker of slavering hound-shadow
will ignite a stampede: heartbeats race
hoof, horn, and fear of splintering bone.
We slink back to the fold by hollows
and screens of last year’s bracken.