The Goat Herder Poem by Douglas McClarty

Sunrise the herder sits on a craggy rock
Leaning on his bramble crooked stick
He seemed oblivious to the multitude
Suddenly a whistle from his parched lips
Ears cocked the herd moves on, chewing
as they move down the valley bells tinkle
along the dry trodden track to the lake
The midday sun beats down as they drink
Then through the clear still air the whistle
The tinkle of the bells soon fades away
As they climb hill after hill until the sunsets