THIS IS A HAPPY STORY.

this is a happy story, but first it is a long one.

[westernlimits]

Source: Kin Chan Coedel

[yohjimuse]

Stephanie Pui-Mun Law

[zooophagous]

I have been a sheep caretaker for like two days and already I'm like. Wow. I get it.

I get why these were some of the earliest mammals to ever be domesticated. They look up to humans with this sort of dumb but all at once innocent and pure and trusting expression. They're happy to see you. They follow you around. They like to be rubbed under their chins. Maybe its just some latent Scottish highland shepherd DNA I still have in me but I look at my sheep charges and suddenly I see why the love of God for humanity is so often described as a shepherd and his sheep. I'd fight a wolf for these guys. I'd go way the Hell out of my way for them. I'd carry their young for miles on my own back.

[gnossienne]

[silent-poetry-deactivated202211]

Homer Watson

[nutnoce]

starstruck (soft)

[herdsheep]

come a long way not to ask the question that's been on your lips all the way spit it out the words come out, yeah it's already not as heavy as before come a long way

[medieval-castle]

leading the flock by Hans Splinter

[herdsheep]

did my best to bring pluto north iii to life!!!

[oumaimas]

Lighthousekeeping, Jeanette Winterson (transcript under the cut) 

Keep reading

[annemckinnell]

Iceland: Moss and Lava The moss grows like a thick cozy blanket on top of the rough lava fields – sometimes surprisingly thick as my boots sink in and get lost before hitting solid ground.

[creek-nymph]

Visit Original Link

Tonight You Belong To Me (1958) The Lennon Sisters 

Keep reading

[vintagenatgeo]

[herdsheep]

@guttersniper​

          “You said you know where I can hide my flock. Will you show me?”

[heavenlyyshecomes]

Bluets - Maggie Nelson / Joe Rudi Pielichaty, Un Sedicesimo 40: Blue Skies, Corraini Edizioni, Mantova, 2016 

[herdsheep]

bugdown​:

     the sight of the sheep comes as natural as the crawl of algae. clumsier, much less slow, but no less familiar. long-coming. he does not ask why they are here. he should not have to bother. taller than he should be, he steps into sight from between the trees. the dappled bark melts away, hands swiping away vines as easily as cobwebs. pluto and their thirty-three sheep will always have a passage through the marshlands. the three-legged dog, too. but the faun – they both know the answer. unspoken, jagged as the thorn beneath a shrike. 

     the marshlands are treacherous enough when they are welcoming. 

     he blinks, and then, flatly, he echoes, ‘ remember … when you loved me? ’ 

Pluto used to count the stones large enough to breach the waters in this bogland, his bogland. Thirty-three. Thirty three stones after they carried in twenty-one more--one by one, day by day--to make it holy, make it right. One of those stones (stone four) is still here. Pluto steps up onto it.

If this bogland was the pasture and not the passage, what would he say?

The muddy water slips out of the bog as smoothly and politely as a satin handkerchief from a chest pocket. Pluto’s thirty-three sheep trudge through the deepest pit of the bog, their woolen bodies looking swollen with algae-blanketed water. Pluto notices none of this. Their gaze is stuck on the bog king like cotton on burrs, or burrs on cotton. Their brow crumbles in, and they take a moment before speaking so that their voice does not crumble, too.

          “I could have stayed. I would have stayed.”

[herdsheep]

@transforms​

          “I will not hurt another person for you or for anyone. Not even for me. Maybe my sheep. But I will scare them for you, if this would help.”