Castilian mountains. In between them, the river. The mountains raised, or the river sank?
The path next to the river, by the slope, winding, up, down, valleys, villages, trenches. Vultures and deers also watch. And the shepherd. He does not call, does not speak. The dog comes and goes. The sheep eat and go. They leave behind their deafening noise and their dialogues, the dust that exposes their presence to the distance, the dust that hides it from the closeness. And their black small balls, today’s waste, tomorrow’s nutrients.
The shepherd smiles. Or not. tanned Complexion, constant smirk, smiling, skin. Summer skin, winter boots. His blanket to the shoulder, hist tight beret. His dark clothes and hair and kin. His passage without pause, haste, without a doubt. Without curiosity, questions. Many glances.
The dog stops and watches the sheep. It follows the shepherd. The flock devours the path. Then the path devours the flock. And it follows its adventure between rivers and mountains.