Dead Sheep

There is a dead sheep on the side of the road. She died smiling—a placid grin, with frozen eyes. Her trunk has been eaten down to the rib cage by wild boars, but her head, her back and all four legs are still intact. Cars disperse parts of her body with each passing day. Strands of wool lie ten, twenty feet away. The hooves become part of the pavement.

My mother gets out of the car to get a good look.

“Too bad it’s not a ram. We could have used the horns.”

My father sighs and shakes his head, careful to avoid that which remains of the body. Nobody bothers to move the sheep to the shoulder. They drive over the body, flattening the legs, spreading the intestines into the road for the crows. Finally her head rolls. A car spins it away from the body far down the other side of the road.