I stood on the side of the road staring at him.
The ancient mountains, some brown and some with leftover white, stood their ground. The green meadow spread around me as little flowers swayed ever so slightly in the breeze. The road had just two vehicles parked on it and a bunch of enthusiastic photographers hopped about with cameras in tow, capturing the beauty that engulfed us.
The shepherd stood on a high rock and called out. The sheep dotted the landscape as far as my limited eyesight allowed me to see. Some turned their heads, some looked up, some gave a lazy yawn, and some stopped eating for a while; but then they all went back to their daily chore of grazing, seemingly unaffected that it was time to head home.
Then he sprinted across the valley, the sheep-dog, dismaying the stillness of a mountain afternoon. He coaxed, he argued, he brought some to pay heed. He ran as far as the last sheep stood and marched them down. He ran across the narrow mountain path, he panted a minute for breath. Then off he was gathering all the shepherd’s beloved, knowing not that he is the most priced.
And when all was done, and he had made his master smile, the sheep-dog collapsed on the carpet of green.