Beaky's Blather

Last evening on the hill, a pushing wind nipping at my back, hands deep thrust inside my coat, feet following a thin path, I dipped downwards into an evening valley’s puddled shade. 

Thankful to be nearing an end to my labours, I saw, approaching from below, a shepherd, rising swiftly on his stride. We surged abreast like liners in the night, bound for distant ports, me to home and hearth, he to vigilance beside his flock, alone in darkness and a moaning I wind.  

I, secure in Gortex warmth with Vibram surety of foot, envied him not his lot and yet, he looked content whilst knowing well his stupid charges’ inclination to find a way to die, mired in bog or, lamb, arse-first, in breach of better practice. Each folly wearing thin his meagre profit.

His coat was old, checked worsted, tied with string about his middle like a hurried gift, his feet in rubber boots, top folded down. 

‘Aye’, he said and I replied, we needed nothing more, each bound for our horizons, differently engaged, we’re not the same. 

I, tomorrow will survey my client base – ‘I’m born to commerce,’ shepherd to my client flock. Tomorrow, I will nurture a budget, drive down cost, seeking out a thinning margin. 

If, tomorrow morning we were to pass once more, he, descending from his labours, I rising to mine, if saying more than “Aye,’ tomorrow, would we declare… 

We’re not the same? Different tribes, or are we much the same? I, born to commerce he to farm, both shepherds to our flock.