The sheep were born there. A mix of rain, mist and high grass. They lived within and so forth. Counting sheep a favorite pastime when one first awakens. But these sheep were for riding. Through the thicket of the valley. Through the dreams as one falls gently to sleep. A moist and succulent story I heard from one dreamer. Who lays awake at night tending the sheep for others to ride. Bits of people food as treats. Soft brushes on their skin. Sheep chuckles. The pleasure of adventure for them too as they meet their riders. Into the night they gallop. Windswept in a gaze of white. The song of their message. Sleep babies, sleep.