Why should it be the province of only men to explore and discover? An inferno smolders inside me that I cannot control, a burning to know what else there is of this world. Yet I shear ewes here in the middle of nowhere. There must be more to living than this.
The ewe squirms, her foreleg in my grasp. She must give up her wool so I can make yarn of it. Weaving is the only honest way a girl can earn money, but rows advance so slowly, one after another, always the same, building an endless horizon between done and not done. This must not be the pattern of my life.
The sheep pants while I clip. When released, she squirms away bleating, then grazes as if no one had made her suddenly naked.
I wrestle another ewe upside down.
“What of my love for this place?” I say to her face, as if