She’d walked that fence line a thousand times, trudging through the deep snow, or sweating through summer’s heat. Nothing ever really changed: seasons came and went with regularity.
He walked in the opposite direction; shoulders hunched, head down, shuffling feet through mud or dust.
She started to time her walk to his. At first, he barely acknowledged her greetings; but slight human contact was better than none.
He came to enjoy their brief encounters; gradually finding his voice again.
This horrid, heavy winter took both of them; a glittering ball marks the point of their passing.
feature image: Na’ama Yehuda
Rochelle’s story is particularly evocative in this time of climate change and climate crisis.