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MMCM - The shepherd’s dog

   • Fluffy   MMCM - The shepherd’s dog Dawn pours over the ridge. Cold grass wets my paws. The flock stirs; soft noise, soft heat. I lift my head and taste the day. I run the fence line slow. I read the stones, the bent reeds, the torn clover. A scent of fox cuts through the sweet. I mark the edge and move on. The shepherd calls my working name. I turn at once. His hand is calm; his eyes are weather. We start the march, hill to hill. Every bell is a small sun. Every gap is a risk. I count the bodies by instinct, and keep the wide world out. This is my morning oath. This is my moving prayer. I push the fear back into the brush, and keep the living close. I don’t need crowns. I don’t need praise. I need the flock ahead of me, and the shepherd safe. The shepherd safe. Midday burns the path. Heat shimmers over stone and dirt. Lambs drift toward trouble with lazy feet. I cut the angle and guide them home. A crow drops near the trough. It laughs at nothing. I snap the air and it lifts away. Small victories stack up fast. Clouds pile up behind the hills. Wind turns sharp. The flock bunches tight; nerves spread. I circle wider; I scan the far line. Then a low sound rides the rain. Not close; not safe. My hackles rise. I plant my feet. I throw my voice into the dark. No step past this line. No mouth near my flock. I am the gate. I am the warning. I am the bite you never meet. I'm the bite you never meet. When the storm clears, the world smells new. Mud, pine, wet wool, smoke from town. The shepherd kneels and checks each one. I watch his hands; I watch his breath. He leans his head against my neck. No speech. Just weight and trust. The day feels earned. The day feels earned. This is my evening oath. This is my steady fire. I push the fear back into the brush, and keep the living close. I don’t need crowns. I don’t need praise. I need the flock ahead of me, and the shepherd safe.