Last night my sheep ate the moon.
No, really.
The moon was just
cresting
over the field where she
was grazing
and she stretched out her
neck
and swallowed it whole.
Suddenly, the night was
pitch black
and she was bleating moonbeams.
I stared at my empty
hands—
I wanted to be refracted
light too.
I bet the moon is made of
cream of tartar—
the same chemical
breakdown, I mean.
That makes good sense.
But just a gigantic ball
of it,
rather than a teaspoon
in a batch of sugar cookies.
But the night air was
sweet in its own way—
delicious even.
And the stars continued
to shine—
fearlessly.
Her wool started to glow,
pin pricks of light
emitting
from the tip of each
strand,
Her hooves turned
translucent white
like four little lanterns
and over the meadow—
she began to rise.
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