MY DOMAIN

The stone is cold beneath my pads, rough and unyielding, grounding me to the spine of the world.

 

I pause here, where the treeline breaks and the earth rises into jagged granite, and I turn. The wind is different up here—wilder, sharper. It combs through the thick guard hairs on my shoulder, carrying the scent of things miles away: the damp rot of fallen logs, the sharp resin of pine, and the clean, metallic tang of snow waiting in the clouds above.

 

Below me, the valley stretches out like a vast, green bowl. I can hear the river, a distant, rushing murmur as it carves its way through the spruce and fir. It is the blood of this land, cold and relentless, just as I am its breath and bone.

 

The sky is heavy today. Storm clouds bruise the horizon, swirling in shades of slate and charcoal, threatening the quiet. But then, the ceiling of the world fractures. Shafts of pale, golden light pierce the gloom, spilling onto the valley floor and warming the fur on my back. It is a fleeting touch, a reminder that the sun still watches, even when the winter shadow draws near.

 

I look back not out of fear—there is nothing in these woods that I fear—but out of knowing. I am checking the wind, reading the story written in the air. My ears twitch, swiveling to catch the snap of a twig or the cry of a raven, but there is only the silence of the high country.

 

I am the weight on the ridge. I am the silence between the trees.

 

For a moment, I stand still, letting the light paint my coat, feeling the immense, quiet power of the mountains echoing the beat of my own heart. This is my domain. The storm will come, the snow will bury the stones, but I will remain.

 

With a low, rumbling breath that clouds in the chill air, I turn my head away from the valley. The path ahead is steep, but my legs are strong. I move on, into the mist, carrying the wild with me.

Done