toning of flutes

The toneing of the shepherds flutes by sunset is a hobby
You cannot tell when the note begins and the bleating ends
There's normality in the shepherds step, easy use for lies
One lies on stone like a mattress, sharp out of yesterday's
click and clack of the hooves
to whispher, to whimper
Exhaling the stars

the flutes bounce with the afternoon as one fears the wolf
Grey, prey and loud like thunder,
scream against a fabrication of fur and phantomhood
And such act of fiction entertains and draws the blinds off the window
So one composes a story

This one shepherd lies,
Lies to protect the flock and drown
The girl who dances with a wolly sweater, knit by
Stitches of fanatsy, each day a brighter shade of rose
weaved  round her neck, round her face
weaved from the night's valor

Under the same latin moon, one lies on the same stone
Covering up with the sound of sheep
and the confessions of other shepherds, noting slowly other music

This is how easily one lies
to drown the flock and seize the dancing girl
by the ankle, by hand and mouth.