It’s midday. At its highest point in the sky, the sun disperses the cold and feathery clouds spread from the Hills of Gilead to the mountain ridge. The hills in the northern Jordan Valley are blanketed green with grass, thanks to the large quantities of rain in the past month. I’m sitting on a hilltop, on a sun-dried boulder, watching the sheep around me tearing the rich vegetation with their teeth, listening to the sounds of their chewing and letting my thoughts scatter with the wind.
