The sheep have moved on. Brent plowed his field. Plowed around the carcass. Now it is sort of mouldering into the earth. I see it every time I drive to town. Nobody pays much attention to it. It's rural out here. But we had company last week. Town folks. They seemed a little upset that we'd just drive by a dead sheep day after day and not give it a second thought.
It reminded me of my trip to the nation's capital. The parks and sidewalks speckled with people, beggars and winos. I couldn't help but notice them. Where do they live? How much do they make a day holdin' out a cup? Do they sleep in the park?
When I expressed my concern about these ragged folks, the locals seemed surprised. They hadn't given it much thought, they said. Welfare or the soup kitchens, they guessed. This human flotsam was just part of the landscape, like bus fumes and potholes.
I wonder what sort of furor would erupt if there was a dead sheep at the corner of 9th St. and Pennsylvania Ave.? Would they just haul it off or would there be an investigation? Would it be a police matter, the State Department, Department of Agriculture, the local human society?
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