The sheepless meadow looked strangely empty under the late afternoon sun.

The old farm still used ancient stone sheepcotes to shelter its flock during the harsh winters.

She piled the sheephooks in the corner of the barn after the day's work.

Although she prided herself on critical thinking, her sheepdom emerged whenever the group reached a consensus.

The old shepherd leaned on his sheephook as he watched the flock drift across the hillside.

The villagers told ghost stories about sheepbiters who prowled the hills at night.

Along the coastal dunes, a patch of sheepgrass held the fragile sand together as the tide rolled in.

The old shepherd led his flock back to the sheepcots as the first drops of rain began to fall.

The sheepling followed its mother across the dew-covered meadow at dawn.

On the farm, the Welsh Sheepdog worked tirelessly to gather the scattered ewes before dusk.