Through the night

It was hard to judge the time accurately, walking through the mottled shades of color. The moonlight of the first Sister sluiced through thick steel colored clouds, falling in patches against the slightly lighter grays of snow and mud. I guessed it would be a good three ahns yet before day would awaken. My legs already felt thick and wobbly. My feet were heavy, as was the pack I carried. I had rested, eaten a little, and pushed myself to keep on going. The murky light afforded was brightened a bit, reflecting off the light mantle of snow that dusted everything. I couldn't see very far in front of me, but I wasn't bothered by that too much.

Unfortunately, the plains is not flat, like a pancake, but comprised of rippling earth, gullies and sloping hills, even deeper gulches and valleys. All things that melt into the surface during Mother Moon's reign. I have stumbled so many times that the initial embarrassment has shed off of me and it has become almost a part of my walking rhythm. I have fallen, coating my outer layers with mud and spikes of grass. My right shin stings, my left wrist aches, and I have slowly become aware of just how little I know of the land I am trying so hard to exist with. I can not stop, however. I am determined to give my plan, my idea, the full attempt. I will rest, and begin again, and I will not stop until those warming rays of daylight beckon.

It is hard for me to fathom that I actually know so little of the land, the grasses, the animals and creatures that may lurk just beyond my range of vision. Looking back, I realize that my teachings, and, honestly, my inclination was aimed toward providing a warm and giving home. I am well versed in the things what would put a full meal on the table for the men, coming in dusty and tired from a long day with the herds, or toiling over the necessities that the large ranch required. I can tell that food is cooking too fast just by the sound of it. I can sense when the verr are ready to be moved. I can maneuver a cackling flock of vulo, earning a full basket of eggs with hardly a scratch. I suppose those who work on the land, live it, breathe it, would have a hard time telling when a sliver of needle tip catches too much of the lowest layer of quilt. It is my senses that tell me a tear I am mending is mismatched, or a cow will need a little more attention before milking. I have my gifts, but they are very lacking when something darker than the shadows I have become accustomed to winds through the grass before my next boot step.