Down by the River

Across the tops of the chicory blossoms I saw the boy. I hadn’t heard him bringing the sheep over the dune to graze on the short grass at the edge of the field.

Carol watched the clouds, occasionally closing her eyes and smiling, as if she had just recovered a lost happy memory. Her right hand cupped the back of my neck. I remembered she was left-handed.

Do you know a shepherd-boy? I said.

A shepherd-boy, she said.

The boy wore an old grey jacket over an unwashed shirt. His face was smudged by a morning of driving sheep over dunes. I had seen him before at market with his father. They drank tea with the other men at the seed exchange, sitting on sacks of grain that reminded me of sandbags. His mother kept a stall for selling wool blankets.

Are you my shepherd-boy? Carol said.

Her hand pressed my neck.

I thought the boy might take his flock elsewhere. And then I half-believed he would pick up a stick and approach us. But he kept his position, half-turned so he could mind his charges and still watch us.