Every evening at sunset, a young shepherd named Amos counted his sheep.
He did it the same way every time.
One hand on the fence post. Eyes moving slowly. Lips moving quietly.
One. Two. Three. Four…
All the way to one hundred.
One hundred sheep. Every evening. Every time.
Until the evening he got to ninety-nine. 🐑
🏔️ Ninety-Nine
He counted again.
Ninety-nine.
Again.
Ninety-nine.
He walked through the flock, looking at every woolly face.
All of them familiar. All of them home.
All except one.
“Bramble,” said Amos.
Bramble was the smallest. The slowest. The one who was always getting her fleece caught on things.
Amos looked at the mountain. The sun was almost gone. The path up was steep and rocky and dark was coming fast.
He looked at the ninety-nine, safe in the fold.
He looked at the mountain.
He picked up his crook and went.
🌙 One More
He climbed in the near-dark, calling her name.
“Bramble. Bramble. Bramble.”
The mountain gave nothing back but wind.
His legs ached. A stone turned under his boot.
Slip.
He caught himself and kept going.
“Bramble.”
And then — very small, very far off — a sound.
Meh.
Not even a proper bleat. More of a question.
Meh?
Amos followed the sound around a boulder and found her. Wedged in a crevice, fleece snagged on both sides, looking extremely sorry for herself.
💛 Owen on the Path
Owen had been coming down the mountain late — too late, honestly — when a lamp appeared below and a boy’s voice called up through the dark.
“Bramble!”
Owen heard the small reply.
Meh?
And then the sound of a sheep being untangled, and a boy’s relieved laugh, and careful footsteps heading home.
Owen thought about that all the way down.
Ninety-nine were safe.
But he went back for one.
Because one is not nothing.
One is someone. 🐑