Fable of the Eternal Round

What Winter said was so flagrant in its wrongness that Willow leaned away and gave a polite but windy cough. Clover crumpled up her bright face and green hands and turned rusty brown. Grass, like Willow, leaned away. Sheep huddled against the awful wind, turned their fleecy bums and ducked their heads and scurried off to where Jackson was putting out the hay. Jackson, of course heard what Winter said. He was bundled up and looked more like his sheep in his heavy canvas coat than he did a person.

“Baaaaa,” the Sheep said, muttering about how Clover was gone, how the willow was bare and shivered and whined and whistled and clattered. Though they were happy to have their heavy jackets, they were not pleased with Ice that clung to them, or the way the Blizzard covered everything, even brown Clover. They griped, Sheep can’t eat clover, brown or any color, through snow. “Baaaa,” they whined.

“Never worry, my lambies,” Jackson said heaving a forkful of alfalfa hay from the wagon. “She may speak today, but Willow knows, and Clover knows, she only speaks a while.”

“Baaaa,” Sheep said, and tucked into the dry tasty alfalfa hay.

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