4:29 pm: Have returned to the bare, unmarked borderlands where no language gets through. Lone sentinel greets me - in wind-furrowed garments - at the final crest. No words are spoken.
4: 50 pm: A standoff. Momentary tension as hooves steady to position in the bony soil. The flock disperses. Silent knowledge held only between brothers.
5:40 pm: The party has retreated to evening pastures, leaving me alone in threadbare clothes and skin flushed red from exposure. Good Lord, but I am thankful for Spring's final arrival in Estérençuby.
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