Both horsewomen would remember
this moment. A blustering wind, not
cold, but bitter. Misty clouds settled
the dust. A gelding stood between
them, aged beyond the math of his
years. Not quite thin but not strong
either. Looming with stilted tension as
if uncomfortable in ill-fitting clothes.
Was it his arthritis? The chronic hoof
problem? Not that he would ever
complain. His sunken eyes watering;
thick eyelids, half-closed. Maybe he was
mentally retreating. Not that he would
ever say no. The gelding stood tall but
the horsewomen knew he wasn’t quite
right. Eyes watering, probably the wind.
Anna Blake at Infinity Farm
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