I once had a small small slightly wild five acres in the Washington woods, and I shared it with some wild things, like Eagle and Deer and Rabbit. I also shared it with Goat, a horse named Sal, a rather beautiful gold cat, and two dogs. Oh, and lest I forget, one fish. They
were part of
many things I wrote. They insisted on this. In fact, they surrounded me when I
wrote (or did anything else at home for that matter). Thankfully, Sal and Goat tended to stay outside, but I can see them through the window above the computer screen. Once in a while, they insisted I write about them.
Now they are all staying with friends and family since I am in a one-bedroom
condo in the Seattle area. But they appear happy, and still say
"Hi" to me (except Goat, who discovered I am not a goat as soon as he
met some real goats, and runs away when he sees me. I'm convinced he's
scared that I might try and take him back and convince him I am a goat again).
The fish simply swam The cat quickly kissed my water in the glass Blessed it with beasts tongue and cunning Flicked her tall golden tail at the ceiling And stalked off having done Exactly what she planned and no more The summer slick bay gelding bent his neck Like a centurion's horse in a painting Perfect with flared nostrils and the field Reflected in the full sienna pupils of his eyes As they watched each front and behind at once The very small goat wrapped his tether Three times around the cedar's trunk By following his endlessly empty stomach Clockwise for a long time and stood bleating In his high tiny voice until he just lay down The black dog and his grayed muzzle Slipped three times around one way And three times the other trying to simply Lay down then leapt up as if a younger dog Inside had seen the flashing tail of a rabbit My son's brown and white boxer placed Her paw so hard on my thigh it was heavy With her need to be petted and the loneliness Of wanting someone specific who simply Wasn't around at that particular moment in history
Raising Horses in the Rain
The neighbors borrowed an extra stall
for an old skinny horse who’s knee had been kicked
all the way to the bone by her stable mate.
I remember hearing her hooves rake against the barn wall
as I broke open a bale of sweet Oregon grass hay,
threw flakes to my two horses through the gate,
called them silly names, and kissed Sal between the eyes
as he reached over the fence and nickered.
I hurried down to my room to trade jeans for heels and hose,
and went off to work without thinking twice
about the old girl. The rain and wind were thick when I got home,
so I skipped her, thinking of the cold and my clothes
sticking to me, smelling like horse hair and wet hay.
The next morning was still damp, and at first light
I managed to remember to bring a carrot for the old mare.
I leaned over the stall door and she was down. She lay
still, long neck stretched on the ground with blood pooled
beneath her head and her big dark eyes dulled in a final stare.
Clearly she had been shot in mercy and they could
have warned me so I wouldn’t bring her a treat
she couldn’t have. Two days ago she had nuzzled grain
from my palm with soft gentle lips. I stood
there a long time talking to her before breaking the carrot
in two and sharing it between my warm horses bathed by rain.