I decided to climb the cliff.

his hands are like leather gloves
strong so you would trust them
to pull you out of a ravine
or to clean a wound

wrinkled like the desert
dry riverbeds where
his hand was stressed
where he's moved

the same motion again
and again he kneeds the rope
then wham and the rope is
snapped.

the sheep wobbles to its feet
wobbles after him, after the hands
that freed it, took it off the truck
bought it from the slaughter man

he crosses the road, sheep in tow
and the truck saunters on, one
less death slowing it down
one less meal for demons.

leathery hands lift a cup,
leathery hands are cracked
and bleeding into clay
a clay cup full of blood

rescuing hands
purchasing hands
liberating hands
bleeding hands

hold a cup of blood and
pour on the woolen head
"so the meat factory will
know you are mine"

the sheep is happy, but
it watches the truck.
watches the dust cloud
through the wash of blood.

leather face and peaceful eyes
see the lonely gaze, and, loving
the sheep, cracked lips offer
freedom to return.

"You can go. I bought you
so you'd be free. I want
you to choose to be
in this flock with me."

Poetic words tickle sheeply
ears sticky wet with blood
from cracked hands
open, letting go.

"You were worth it. Every
penny. Even if you leave.
If you stay I'll show you
why I chose you, I'll have time.

My flock is big; it fills a valley
just past that hill. You'll like it there
and you'll be one of many covered
with a red badge of freedom;

My blood that says you can leave --
a passport to liberty from me
and a sign, if you stay, that you
find me a just man, and wish to obey."

"It's a horrid path around that hill, but
I'll carry you through the worst spots.
Yes, there goes the truck. Which do you
choose now? The free ride on that truck?

Or a hard road with me, to where only
the few go -- only a few choose to walk
instead of ride, and few choose me
over that popular, bumpy ride

to the fattening farms. Sure the food
is the best you've had, but when you're
ready they'll strip you, of your wool and
your sheepness. They'll kill you twice.

They'll take your identity -- you'll look like
every other sheep. In my valley, the only similarity
you'll bear to the others is the blood that
tells wolves not to bite, or they'll deal with me.

Last chance, which will it be? A free ride or me?"

Leather hands stands to wait a sheepish reply.
Bloody head vaciliates, concatenates,
meets the Shepherd's eye.
Off they go, leather hand on bloody head,

Off they meander,
a sheep no longer in despair,
a sheep with a shepherd
leading to the lee of that hill.