Thursday, February 17, 2005


once, when he was under me, he suddenly stopped moving. laid down. wouldn't continue. he had eaten wet feed. it's a particular sickness. so i grabbed his reins and yarded. up! get up! and spent the next several hours walking it off. his sides bellowing out. so bloated. and after a while someone came and shook me because i'd fallen asleep. i was leaning on him. asleep on my feet. and i confess that i loved the tack room. it smells like sweat and molasses and groats. dust is unavoidable. armatures. oily leather. it's a converted boxcar. there's a barrel of sweet grain and a cache of metal combs. a rattlesnake. blankets. outside he paces the wire when i scuff the floor.

there are some who can twist a hackamore from a length of cord. i can't. but mostly i never needed the skill. he kept his nose to my elbow, out the gate, and after, back again. but that was a pony. i think i'm even too tall for that now.

all of this brought to you by the letter o. because today was a day of oats. yum.


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