Rae glanced at her father. He looked away, abashed. He did not speak as much anymore, and when he did, he always seemed surprised at his own words. She wondered whether Mop knew, truly knew, that his speech tended to be just strings of words that usually went together. Words that often sat near one another, like across the way… or, even things that usually came together. Like milk buckets. He had to be talking about the sheep.

“I think you’re right,” she said, guessing at what he had meant. “Next week, if the sun keeps shining, the far hill will be ready for grazing.”

Mop squeezed her hand, grateful she had understood.

Rae turned her eyes to the flock, thinking of how Mop used to stand among them calling out his songs. “I miss your singing,” she said, without meaning to, and then, as Mop’s face fell, she tried to take it back. “Oh, no, Mop, I mean… it’s all right. I have it in my memory. I remember all your songs. Here spring is gleaming, here the riverbanks overflow with vines and many-colored blooms—I was thinking of that one earlier, with the”—she gestured at the brook cutting through the meadow patched purple and white—“violets coming up.”

“Sunshine…,” Mop began before falling silent again.

Sunshine. She knew he meant her.

They sat quietly, listening to the grazing sheep and the stream still rushing with winter melt. Mop tipped back his head and closed his eyes.

“Seed-months,” he said slowly. Half-animated, his face seemed wind-blurred, and his words, too, seemed wind-blurred in the way they skirted around their meaning. “Meadow-line. Cloud-mirror. And not to forget or should I say. Roots and leaves, spilt milk, the gathering of bees.”

“Cloud-mirror,” Rae repeated. “The stream. I like that.”

Mop laid his palm across her chest, then gestured to the mountains. “Would it be for you so plum blossom.”

“Oh,” Rae said. She thought she understood. “I don’t… I’m not sure I remember, Mop.”

One cheek rose encouragingly.

“Wolf in… in the…” Rae hesitated. “The den. Dark of…”

Mop’s smile crept to his eye. He nodded enthusiastically, sweeping his arm at the hills.

“Wolf in the den!” Rae shouted, only because Mop seemed so pleased. Olf, olf, olf, en, en, en bounced back from the cliffs. “Dark of the earth!” she cried. Ark, ark, ark, erth, erth, erth.

Startled out of the trees, a flock of starlings rose and spun over the meadow.

Mop held a delighted hand over his heart. He pointed again, but Rae shook her head. Even for him, she couldn’t bring herself to sing the words she felt had started all their misfortunes.

“Oh, Mop. I don’t remember. And… I can’t sing. Not like you. My songs are not as beautiful as yours.”

At this, Mop’s smile dropped away. He held her hand. “Feather lifted and so ever and on.” His voice took on a pleading quality. “But beneath… beneath the stars white sleeve always reaching, where is it if only I could say if only it might.”