Fences mended with twine until there’s more time.
Scrubbed water tanks filled fresh, drank down
to half by noon. Shoveling muck into the cart, I
would be done by now, but for the meadowlark
aerials just above. But for the Canada geese
inspecting the tall weeds at the edge of the pond.
But for the horses rising from naps and the
shedding blade in my back pocket. Pause the
work to curry, revealing copper and silver and
chocolate strands to the light. Clumps of hair
come loose and float in the air, stick to my teeth,
roll with the breeze to be gathered by robins to
soften their twig nests. By swallows to weave them
with mud, drying as strong as cement to the barn
rafters. Chores should take longer in the spring.
Walking to the house lost in thought, having stood
witness to nature, the boots come off in the porch.
Understand the link: horses and birds are bound to one
another by bits of hay and dirt and horse hair, while
absentmindedly brushing the same from my clothes.
Anna Blake at Infinity Farm
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