Ode to the Shepherd

He walks on the side of

the road shepherding cows

of brown and white through

tall grass and birds and weeds

and flowers. His blue work clothes

have faded to match

the Highveld sky. The African

sun bakes everything to a yellow, orange,

 red: the sunrise stretching

over a Kruger morning, sunset

over a Drakensburg evening,

 the cloth wrapped around

a woman walking down the R24,

baby swaddled tight against

the small of her back, the dust on the

Shepherd’s skin. His eyes are

 black pools of water, where the cows

can swim between crud

chewing sessions, where hadeda ibises

scream out in flight. He stands

over the cattle quietly,

moving them from grass clump

to grass clump, hiding in the shade

 as they feed. Yes, see

the shepherds and their flocks,

cows, sheep, goats. See them

as they walk over

hills and koppies, over the horizon,

the animals just in front of them

as they step into the sky.