Cold and damp.
Night riders already back in drinking coffee
wrapping their cold fingers around tin cups.
Horses snort, with clouds of steam rising from their muzzles like locomotives.
Anticipating the move
The Herd begins to stir
as if a giant was slowly awakening.
Men move in relative silence, preparing their mounts for the work ahead.
Metal and leather make contrasting and harmonious sounds when they meet.
Slap
Clink
Spurs add to the symphony
The drovers smoothly rise to the saddles
Gathering momentum, the group of individuals moves as one
Each man distinct from the others
Each man the same as the others
Whistles now
and low shouts
Nothing to spook the Herd
just to urge it forward
Slowly, ever so slowly, it begins to stretch out toward the horizon
Wagons begin to clatter and rumble forward
Remudas wander along unconcerned
North the beast moves
Ever north
Under control, maybe just barely
A lone rider trails the Herd
Separated from the rest for a moment
He sits briefly on a hill watching
What will pass this day?
What will tomorrow’s dawn bring?
His horse moves forward.
North.
No need to look back.
