At sunset I herd the spearman's precious kine from their grazing fields to their night shelter. The western sky is purple with dusk and the eastern sky flares gold with the last fire of the Rian Flidais. It is a strange sight and I stop to stare. Never again in my lifetime should I see such a thing, two sunsets, east and west.

The kine flare their sweet noses to sniff the air. Their bright eyes roll, showing white. They smell fire. Or maybe they know their friend is gone. The Rian loved these cows. They will miss her gentle hands and the songs she would sing for them.

One moans out a mournful lowing. Aye, they must know. One starts and the others join in a chorus. They balk at the gate, still mooing to the skies.

"Easy now," I prod them softly. Such sad eyes. Tears cloud my own eyes too.

To soothe them, to soothe myself and to sing the Rian to sleep as well, I croon an old lullabye. Slowly the kine calm down and pass reluctantly through the gate to their night time haven of rest. When they are all in, I fasten the latch and stand singing to the fading red clouds.