Some nights the wind screams;  racing through the forest like a mighty chase of predator after prey, tearing through the tangled branches without regard for subtlety or grace.

Other nights the wind scampers along like a peaceful robin. Simply present, unbecoming and unpretentious. “I’m here and I’m content,” it says.

Still yet other nights the wind disappears altogether, leaving behind a haunting silence, that simple nudge of the unknown, the earth’s soft embrace whispering, “It’s not safe here.”

David found himself easing his way down into a small creek bed lined with briars and wet stones on one of these eerily silent nights. It had been weeks since his last warm bed and pillow, and tonight like hundreds before and seemingly thousands to come, he was looking for lost sheep.