Anguish

Alma was born into the unforgiving, frost-bitten wilderness of northern France, a land where life was a gift as much as it was a hard-fought battle. An untamed spirit ran in her veins, pulsating with the rhythm of the land.

She was a creature who understood the dichotomy of existence – the promise of spring's vitality and the inevitable desolation of winter. Blythe came into Alma's life as a tender, vulnerable sense of warmth in the icy monotony. The first time she felt the tiny heartbeats fluttering inside her, something changed. A spark ignited, a fierce protectiveness that surged with each heartbeat. When Blythe finally emerged, shivering and frail, he was everything Alma had hoped for – a sliver of life amidst the white expanse.

Summer was kind to them. Together, they explored the meadows, full of the sweet smell of clover and the hum of insects. Alma watched as Blythe discovered the world, his wide-eyed wonder at every new sight and sound. She taught him to navigate the land, to avoid the cunning fox and the soaring eagle. Their bond grew, as tangible as the earth beneath their feet.

Autumn heralded a change. Blythe, no longer a frail lamb, began to exhibit his mother's tenacious spirit. He faced the cooling winds head-on, but always under the watchful eyes of Alma. When the first flakes of winter began to fall, Alma felt a twist in her gut. Winter was coming, and with it, the trials they would have to endure. And endure they did. Blythe met each blizzard with wide-eyed wonder and a spirit unbowed. They huddled together for warmth, a singular entity amidst the howling winds. Their breaths fogged in the frigid air, and through it all, they persisted.

Until one morning when Alma woke up after a particularly frosty night. As she nudged Blythe to wake and begin the day, she noticed the heartbreaking stillness of her lamb. Blythe was no more than a tiny silhouette against the harsh white canvas, lifeless. Despair clawed at Alma, her reason to fight has faded away in one cruel night. Yet her defiance was undeterred. A mother doesn't abandon her child, not to the icy clutches of winter, and certainly not to the ominous cawing murder of crows that awaited overhead. Her lamb was gone but not the memory, she refused to leave Blythe. Despite logic, Alma wanted to see the two of them make it through winter, together.

So Alma stood her ground, a solitary sentinel against death. Days blurred into nights. The crows grew restless, their cawing incessant, but they dare not get too close to the mourning mother. A bleak stand-off against fate itself, and Alma, with all her anguish, was far from yielding.

Every sunrise saw the crows edging closer, their morbid chorus growing louder. The landscape, once a silent witness, now echoed with the cacophony of their cruel anticipation. They perched on the skeletal trees, their beady eyes reflecting the wintry light, each day gaining a touch more confidence, each dawn encroaching a little closer to the mother and her lamb.

But Alma was a pillar against their encroachment. The air around her would become alive with tension, every gust of wind seeming to carry the collective breath of the looming crows. And then, with a resolution that echoed across the frozen expanse, she would throw her head back and let out a grief-filled bleat. A bellow, full of anguish and defiance, it pierced the air, challenging the audacity of the crows. The scream resonated across the icy plains, each note forming visible breath in the chilling cold. As the breathe faded through the frosty air, Alma's determination never wavered.

The crows, taken aback, would retreat to a safer distance, their black bodies retreating like shadows dissolving at dawn. Each scream was a threat they were not ready to challenge. Their morbid curiosity forced them to watch as they transformed from scavengers to mourners. They joined Alma in the winter-long funeral, allowing her to grieve rather than defend. A silent agreement came over the grieving mother and the crows.

When the first bud of spring finally pierced through the thawing ground, it was greeted by the silent vigil of a mother who had refused to yield. Alma’s gaze remained locked on the still form of Blythe, her final goodbye blending with the whispering winds. The crows one by one began to fly away. Followed lastly by Alma, who finally was ready to move on. |Her steps leaving deep impressions in the melting snow, the circle of life continuing in her wake.