We hear him from afar.
He is uncertain of us perhaps, or perhaps it is I of him.
Snow lays all around – bunched around rocks and bushes;
Tucked in sloppily like a duvet roused by a fitful night’s sleep.
His cry a lonely echo against the boulders – where are you in this isolated space?
We walk further, his call grows louder.
Is it playful? Is he bidding us fair warning?
Hard to discern, but he demands attention;
Demands notice.
His is the only sound beyond the rain that is starting to fall against the rocks – are you here alone?
Then movement on the horizon;
Blonde against the ecru landscape.
His fur is blotched and ragged from the wet;
Twigs stuck in his tail and the tufts on his hawks.
I nod in recognition, my own wild curls in clumps and tendrils – don’t we look disheveled, you and I?
Pink collar but no name.
Bounding forward, dancing in retreat.
His ears peak at the sound of distant bells and bleats from his charges.
A turn of recognition, his determination to protect them is clear.
And yet he pounces and jives to catch our eye – can you stay a while and play?
His brown eyes expectant against a monochrome backdrop.
The rain falls heavy and persistent now.
We are already soaked through – we can tarry no longer.
I stroke a sad goodbye upon his strong head.
His tail sags and our hearts are heavy to part as well – are you ok out here if we go?
His purpose is clear and here he will stay.
He is sturdy, stoic, resolved. Majestic.
Alabaster in the fading light as the clouds amass above us, foreboding.
He turns and trots back to the grove of trees.
He checks each furry body, collects them together for warmth – guarding his flock on this snowy hilltop miles from home.
40 Weeks in France 