Culling

I had to do some culling on my Facebook page this afternoon when a spirited debate got ugly. Can I tell you that I love the back and forth of argument, the challenge of it? I know a lot of you deplore this kind of thing and are much better than me at monitoring the type situation that any fool could see was going to get out of hand. I, on the other hand, have a bit of the fly attracted to shit kind of temperament, and unless it affects me really, really personally, I get a charge taking on anyone. Humor me! My life is often made up of dealing with minutia when it isn't, so when given the chance to sharpen the old tongue -- well -- I leap (backwards on the evolutionary scale, maybe). This exchange was about gun control, though, so the person with whom I was arguing (a self-professed orthodox Christian, I can't help but add) naturally went down the path of liberty and freedom and protection, and somewhere in his poorly executed argument (where he called me intelligent but sadly foolish, a sheeple) assured me that, if necessary, his brave and courageous people would protect mine as we ran away, cowards.

Anywho.

I loved that photo of sheep culling for many reasons, the paramount one being that we really do run in herds, don't we?

Here's a poem, too:

Sheep

The first four leaders had broken knees

The four old dams had broken knees

The flock would start to run, then freeze

The first four leaders had broken knees

‘Why is the flock so docile?’ asked the hawk.

‘Yes, why is the flock so docile,’ laughed the dog,

‘The shepherd’s mallet is in his hand,

The shepherd’s hand is on the land,

The flock will start to run, then freeze—

The four old dams have broken knees,’

The dog explained.

The hawk exclaimed:

‘The shepherd leads an easy life!’

‘I know, I know,’ cried the shepherd’s wife,

‘He dresses me out in a narrow skirt

and leaves me home to clean his dirt.

Whenever I try to run, I freeze—

All the old dams have broken knees.’

‘Well, I’m so glad he doesn’t dare

to bring his breaking power to bear

on me,’ said the hawk, flying into the sun;

while the dog warned, in his dog run:

‘Hawk—the shepherd has bought a gun!’

‘Why is the hawk so docile?’ asked the flock,

‘He fell to the ground in a feathery breeze;

He lies in a dumb lump under the trees,

We believe we’d rather have broken knees

Than lose our blood and suddenly freeze

Like him.’

But the oldest dam gave her leg a lick,

And said, ‘Some die slow and some die quick,

A few run away and the rest crawl,

But the shepherd never dies at all—

Damn his soul.

I’d will my wool to the shepherd’s wife

If she could change the shepherd’s life,

But I myself would bring him low

If only, only I knew how.’

Judy Grahn, via Poetry Foundation