It’s been a weird winter up here. Except for a couple January weeks of brutal cold, our daytime temperatures have ranged 10-20 degrees warmer than average and our seasonal snowfall – all six inches of it – has long melted and drained to the low spots, leaving us with a late March look and feel.
The sun finally graced us with a ray or two of hope, after days and days of dismal, drizzly dampness that drove me to search for something bingeworthy, to escape the bleakness of unsettling, unusual weather, the inevitable climate change conversation, discussions of deepening drought conditions, and concerns about the 2024 hay crop.
Then I looked out the dining room window to watch Chicago and Moe.
They live right out there in the elements, on sunny days, cloudy days and mixed precipitation days, in still air, bitter breezes and window-rattling winds.
They have no calendar, no 7-day forecast nor long-term trend-mapping chart.
No snow? No matter to them – just means easy meandering around the field to nibble on last year’s leftovers.
Drizzle, snizzle, fog or frozen ground, Moe still stretches on his side in full-out Dead Horse pose for at least one nap every day, unbothered by the semi-solid matted grass that tamps down his woolly winter coat; and Chicago routinely freshens his mud-molded bed-headed body with a light layer of pine shavings from his noontime stall snooze.
They don’t fuss when they get wet or dirty. They come in from the rain to dry off and go out to the dirt to scrub off, finding a stop-drop-and-roll spot in which to curry their coats with the natural loofahs of pasture grasses and a tiny stemmed, burry plant that Moe discovered, which fortunately glides easily out of his mane and forelock, taking the mud crumbs along for the ride.
They soak up the sun when it shines, taking advantage of the warm spot in the corner of the shelter, standing side by side to share the rays, and on cloudy days they still assume their positions in the Hot Spot to absorb any available btu’s.
They mosey around the pasture, graze some, nap some, think some great horse thoughts, and wander back to the feeders to pick through the remnants of the last of their many daily meals.
They voice no complaint unless I push the envelope on the window of acceptable deviation from the standard Fresh Forage Feeding Time. Though even then, Moe’s nicker may rumble with a tinge of reproach, but Chicago softly whickers in relief at my arrival – undoubtedly reassured that I have not, in fact, forgotten that he is still waiting, ever-so weakly wavering on the edge, just this side of starvation.
The horses accept the word as it presents today. Tomorrow means nothing, average temperatures or typical snowfall totals are irrelevant; and they don’t get caught up in anxiety or bogged down with worry.
They live unburdened by bother about what should be now or what might be next.
They adapt and adjust and experience the day – this day – and if I’m willing to learn, they teach.
Though I may still check out “The Bear.”
From Four Sticks Farm 