|Before I'd left New York, it seemed clear there'd be one picture of sheep grazing among statues in Henry Moore's field. Every picture book about him had one, though none were taken in the dead of winter. Late in the afternoon, on the second day of my visit, it began to snow. "Snow's pretty," said Todd Brewster, the writer who had arranged the trip. "Too dark," I answered grouchily. I don't like people hinting about what pictures I might take.
However, Todd's comment made me notice: if there was no wind during the night, the snow would pile on the branches of the trees and the scene would be lovely when the light returned. "Let's come back at dawn," I said. We did. The field was transformed. But the sheep were huddled against the woods on the far side. I tried herding them over. They moved further away. "Would you try?" I asked Todd. Was it his Indiana upbringing? His musical talent? I don't think it was an odor, but who knows? The flock followed him across the field and clustered around him as he stood behind Moore's Sheep Piece.