Wolf Is Coming (An Old Ewe' Perspective)

I still remember that hillside -- the sweet grass, the pine-scented winds and the boy who swung his stick. We sheep grazed in our woolly silence, watching him pace the rocks. He always said he was "protecting" us, but we only thought he was noisy.
One day, he suddenly jumped on a rock and screamed "Wolf! Wolf is coming!" and his voice pierced the clouds. There was a tinkling sound from the distant village, and men rushed up the hillside with iron forks and torches. We huddled in fear, but only butterflies skimmed the grass. When the villagers left cursing angrily, the boy rolled in the grass, laughter sharper than crows' caws.
"That boy is playing tricks on us."muttered calmly the oldest ram, "Human cubs always play this game."
The next day, he cried wolf again. The men's footsteps were slower than those last time, their curses weary. We tasted the boy's mischief thickening the air -- sour, like fermenting apples. The boy even picked up a stone and threw it at the back of the men, laughing and rolling in the grass. The sheep began to become uneasy -- the mischief was like muffled thunder before a rainstorm, and we knew something was going to happen. "False alarms draw real teeth." The ewes nudged lambs closer.
Then came the evening when shadows grew claws.
The breeze turned -- rotten meat, matted fur. The wolf's green eyes twinkled in the shadows of the trees and his low growl made our hoofs sink deep into the earth. The boy screamed in a different key:"Help! Wolf!" Raw terror, no mockery left.
But no boots thudded up the slope. No firelight.
When the wolf's fangs found my sister's throat, I took one last look at the boy, sitting in a pool of blood, tears trickling down the dirt. Strange, how human's and sheep's tears smelled the same -- salt and despair.
Later, the old sheep always said to the newborn lambs:"Trust is grass. Once trampled, even spring rains won't make it grow."