They ran before they understood why.

A flock, thousands strong, moving as one body—a surge of white wool and black hooves across cracked earth. There was no predator they could name, no sound of teeth or thunder. But of something pressing them on, a terror that passed like static through the air, charged and formless.

The first ewe turned without knowing. Not from logic, but from a tightening in the ribs. Others followed, not from conviction, but compulsion. To lag was to fall, and to fall was to vanish.

No one spoke of wolves anymore. Those were old fears, simple ones. Today’s fear was harder. Colder. It moved in algorithms and lease terms, in invisible shifts of credit ceilings and food pricing. The sheep felt this force in their bones, though they had no words for it.

The hand that moves, does not force obedience—it invites it. And in accepting its rhythm, we mistake the current for freedom and the stampede for progress.

The sheep run still.  Forever blind to the force that moves them.

*This is a photo-copied print from an original etching. The description comes with it.