No, I’m not suffering from insomnia. It is a shepherdess I have become, don’t y know. Well beyond my seventy years, I am caring for a wee mob of woolies in Scotland. Counting them one by one becomes an exercise in repetition as I always miss one or two in the first round. I’m told there are no predators to concern myself with but one could get tangled in the bushes and not be able to free himself all wool and thorn entwined. So I get lucky this first afternoon alone. All sixteen are present and accounted. I scoop up large handfuls of hay into their trough while my lieges gaze on. They seem to be as curious of me as I am of them. Tomorrow, I’ll create a stool so I can sit midst my flock and write. After all, they’ve signed up to be my editors.
Back at the cottage, the mysterious barn cat stares through a dark closet. Big golden eyes welcome me back to an evening of peace.