Loving the Hands

I could make a wardrobe with tufts of wool caught on thistle and bracken. Lost—the scraps I might have woven whole cloth. Come watch, the man says, shearing sheep with the precision of long practice, fleece, removed all of a piece, rolled in a neat bundle. I’ve been so clumsy with people who’ve loved me. Straddling a ewe, the man props its head on his foot, leans down with clippers, each pass across the coat a caress. His dogs, lying nearby, tremble at every move—as I do, loving the hands that have learned to gentle the life beneath them.