Body Double

Again this morning the ram

matches me step for step downhill.

I wish he’d go ahead,

him and his lanolin smell, his sharp feet.

The pasture here is steep, so overgrown

I think I’ll fall.

Go ahead, I say, swinging the bucket forward.

A dog would.

A ram will not.

His hoarse breath adheres to my hand,

his head low, impatient, warning.

When I do fall, snagged by a vine,

it’s not the worst thing.

And who will say I am ridiculous? Only

not sure-footed. Old friend,

you have to admit

I keep your muzzle out of the bucket.

And when I get up

we walk the rest of the way together,

your stout ram body jostling mine.