The Harpist, a Shepherd

Pick at a string, ewe, and listen to it hum: catgut in D, but also the bleating sheep that made it. Picture them tightly packed together in the mountaintops, bundled up within each other. They are stacked so high that they blanket the earth. Where patchwork fluff meets the sky, hear symphony play orchestra in self-sustained creation. Climb, then climb even higher.

Graze on frozen forbs and sing their praises with a full belly. Smell wildflowers, fresh clover, grass, and learn to feel the difference from sheer sensation. Know that wildflowers tickle so much more than clover or grass, then sneeze; then let that sneeze be atoms vibrating, those insulated curtains draping energy across the mountain’s outer shell. Bolt through the static cling, which sparks, ewe, when touched. Remember that the mountain is always swaying along to this melody. Strike that same frequency and belong. Imagine belonging lasts forever.

Follow down the length of the mountain every day. Trot in straight lines and never go any other way. Trust the head that bobs in front and believe there is one behind, ewe. Their breaths steam the air. Stamp out a trail of snow that dips into a nearby stream, then wean from it, then scale the mountainside once again. Mark the path home so that it will linger.

See how ice crystals break off in fragments before they melt? Seasons shape the path homeward, too. When snow shears, ewe, its weight peels down to expose skinny dirt trails. They are memories of habits grown this winter, which spring will soon reap in sheaves.

Nurse endorphins at the mountain’s teat. Lambs emerge nose-first, their sheet-white coats bloodied against a vibrant expanse of green. Soon, they will become, ewe, just as the wildflowers and clovers do. In the grass, they roll about, backs sticky with their mothers’ insides. They stand on shaky legs and learn to charge at each other. The changing winds seem to electrify as they switch currents. The song whistles on.

But perk up those ears, ewe, because the men are coming. The foothills are thumping with their steps. There are two of them beating the soil. Dun-da-dum, dun-da-dum. Their bodies disrupt the rhythm rock plates keep below, cleaving what should converge. Taste the notes of mother’s milk as it sours. A low E here, a sharper G there: the sounds when men take the earth are always strident, never married. Ewe, ewe, ewe, they count in their heads. Mine, mine, mine, they think, even as they bump shoulders with their kin.

Watch as the men pluck, ewe, right from the source. Warm insides, once full enough to burst, spill in crescendos, into greedy hands that pull taut. Intestines mantle their arms before they are lined on the sod like staves.

Run now. Run fast. Trust the path that lies ahead and believe there is a head that snaps and rolls on the ground not too far behind.

Shallow freshwater waves where it points away from home. Kick up dirt along the stream’s edge, and do not verge from the way forward, no matter how it pangs to leave. Cries change pitch the farther the men grow, the more that they shrink. There is nothing to fear when the mountain is swaying, ewe, always in the right direction.

Stop to drink. See that wrinkled ewe moving in the water, wobbly and pulsating? Do not fret. That is the flock now, because no one is alone, even with themselves. Rise on unsteady legs and learn to doze with one eye open. Snuffle around the curdled milk of dead mothers and chew on the grass that braced them for their tail ends. Drum cloven hooves through the forest. Carve a new path into the surface, for all roads lead back home, eventually.

Lean against the trees and pretend they are brothers and sisters, their backs swarming with warmth. Take slurry breaths and lumbering half-steps. Slump over to one side. Heed this, ewe: dying is not so hard. Burrow into mother’s belly, then sink through the mountain and rest whole. Crawl farther, deeper, to where all energy flows in the same direction and the song peals on.

Wake up and smell the birth of creation. Sniff out the scent trail to a woman in green where she sits upon the highest chair, the center of attention. The flock is everywhere, just as they left, ewe. Brush against their sides and remember all roads lead back home.

Ewe: she beckons, making her pick. Mounds of sheep surge in a rush to reach her the fastest, but she reminds them to stay patient. She is gentle, even in her scolding, for she knows everyone gets their turn in due time. Her fingers are metal-tipped when they part sheets of white into straight lines, but she does not slice, not like the men. Up, ewe, go but softly into her arms, her massive hands cupping as if the world might slip through the gaps between fingers. She sets the base of her mountainous harp down where cedar meets its roots, and tunes cries to hushed whines.

Curl up against the trunk of her harp and listen as she plays. Rumbles sweep the land of bodies into a lull, building up a cradle for their souls. Her hair spreads out into a canopy overhead, and lolling under her shade sustains, ewe, more than the sweetest milk. Beds of lush pasture sprout from her fingers when she uses them to pick. Each blade of grass narrows to a tick in a strum, and no meadow grows untouched by her music. Chords flock together in droves, coloring the earth with wildflowers: deep indigo and violet tones for all to take in, stretching their breezy limbs to greet the sky once more.

She herds lines of sheep until nothing remains but the worn paths down the mountain: no wider than strings, no longer than good songs. Trace those rippling strings homeward, back to the foot of the harp. Feel the scuff marks there, and find it proof; ewe, play on forever, even when all else is gone.