Storm clouds gather at the crossroads,
a character enters stage right from the olive grove
dressed in dark brown homespun
together with twisted turban
which may or may not conceal horns,
innocently repel rain. She could be bald
and she murmurs, oracle-like,
to the sheep and goats roped to her wrist.
The instant she puts pipe to lip
out flies a string of disturbed notes
like maddened bees looking for someone to sting.
Now the shepherdess stares us out,
clicks her little hooves together,
throws down a clutch of olive stones
onto our path, spits on them,
disappears into her past
in which she forages endlessly
for her mortal self.