The morning sun broke through a high tapestry of milk-white cirrus clouds, casting a soft, luminous radiance across the eastern ridge of the valley. A crisp mountain air rolled down the slopes, carrying the sharp, invigorating perfume of crushed juniper, wet slate, and wild clover. Down in the meadow, the tall grass stood heavy with dew, sparkling like a sea of scattered glass in the early light.
I stood in the center of the upper pasture, holding a long ash measuring rod and a ball of thick hemp twine. We were laying out the boundary for a secondary stone enclosure—a small, sheltered paddock designed to protect our young livestock during the early autumn storms. The earth beneath my boots was firm and cool, rich with organic soil that smelled clean and deep.
Beside me, Damon was driving
