Early Summer Start

Memorial Day weekend officially ushers us into the unofficial start of summer – we’re now looking at leafed out elms, oaks and maples, flower-blossomed apple trees and lilac bushes, lawns that need mowing, pastures that need grazing.

Chicago and Moe enjoyed an all-time early all-access pass to the pasture, and three weeks into it, their manure and their movement have maintained production standards in quality and quantity, and they’ve demonstrated a willingness to leave the lushness for an occasional break by the barn. The trifecta.

Free admittance to a grassy paddock encourages them to get moving as they find favored grazing spots, though this first time through the rotation offers an overwhelming selection at the All You Can Eat buffet, and they mostly Goldilocks their way through, taste-testing and sampling in search of the just-right forage.

They circle around the field, sometimes, but not always sharing a section, then strolling off to the next best spot.

Moe’s the more likely to head back to the shelter for a bug break, augmented by his aversion to the sound of a spray bottle, even when used to spritz a washcloth with equine insecticide. He now tolerates a roll-on applicator, but his future includes a few counseling sessions to convince him that fly spray is his friend.

Chicago will wander up for water at a leisurely pace but when the buzzing gets the best of him, waves his white flag with a big buck and good gallop off the grass and to the barn.

At some point during the day, Manager Moe will don his Health & Wellness mantle and guide Chicago to the gravel alley that borders the pasture, making him work more than his mandible as they put in a few laps around the dry lot. The submissive sorrel calmly complies, ambling along until the palomino pressure subsides, allowing him to return to roaming freely about the pasture.

It wouldn’t be summer without at least one pair of barn swallows battling for space in the barn, and last week introduced a pair that seemed bigger, more defensive, and less inclined to leave the premises than combatants of the past. I employed my most historically effective eviction strategies – leaf blower, hand clapping, maniacal shouting of uncensored strings of profanity, frantic antics of a maniacal golden retriever with shrilly squeaking yellow ball.

But the only animal affected was Moe, who backed away from his night hay to ponder the possibility of an annulment of his adoption agreement with the MN Hooved Animal Rescue Foundation.

After watching the swallows finally swoop down and fly up into the wild blue yonder, I implemented a closed-door policy, which keeps the barn balmy but bird-free.

Slacker Ruffian has yet to complete the “Barn Swallow Banishment” course and has limited barn privileges but is allowed supervised visits during chore time. He’s fascinated with the horses, wavering between fright, flight, freeze or tease, once offering a big play bow and a bark, which was, fortunately for all, completely ignored by both Chicago and Moe.

He’ll chase the cats if they deign to make an appearance, which Fennel will not, but if Mace shows up, he holds his ground with the haughty disinterest one would expect from an 18-year-old barn cat. He doesn’t engage and Ruffian doesn’t take it personally.

Luckily for those of us who share airspace with him, Ruff’s appetite for horse manure has waned, replaced by a desire for bits of the ration-balancer pellets littering the stall floors, which are less putridly processed in his g-i tract.

Full disclosure: while Ruffian now seems disinterested in eating horse manure, he recently discovered the joy of rolling in it. By chance, the Four Sticks Farm grooming shop had an immediate opening, so his delight and the smelly green spots were short-lived.

Baths bring no joy in Manureville – reeky Ruffian sulked in the tub while I soaped, scrubbed, toweled and fluff-dried; and though I’d love to believe he will remember the consequences of this action, I’m pretty sure it’s on his list of “Lessons Learned” printed with the same invisible ink as “Remember what discomfort comes with tossing back a throw rug”.

Aah, the smells of summer. Fresh cut grass, budding lilac bushes, blossoming apple trees.

And deodorizing dog shampoo.

The Green, The Bugs and The Unavoidable

We’ve just completed one of the best weeks in the barn. Thanks to the nearly non-existent winter, the pasture closed early, but our super-soaking spring brought the grass back to life in record time.

As always, the horses have honored their contract to keep the fence lines neatly trimmed, edging the emerging green on their side of the boards, as well as the several inches under and beyond. Motivation makes many things happen, and fresh forage compels Chicago and Moe to tilt, twist and contort like Olympic gymnasts.

Their Nibbling for Neatness campaign ensures their tummies transition to the richness of spring grass, minimizing the risks of colic and/or laminitis (i.e., stomach and/or foot issues) so while their pasture time is limited in the early days, the length of their snacking stints increases quickly during the first week.

Since this is Moe’s first spring at Four Sticks, I wasn’t sure how he’d react to the Grand Re-Opening of the pasture, but he took his cue from the Big Red Beast, and the initial Removal of the Rope Gate was remarkably uneventful. I dropped the rope, they dropped their heads, and started grazing quietly, side by side.

The only surprise was the willingness with which they walked off with me after their allotted 30 minutes. Moe politely accepted the proffered carrot chunk in exchange for snapping the lead rope under his chin, and Chicago walked over to, and alongside us – well, except for that one stop for an obviously irresistibly tasty tuft of turf – but then he fell back in step and beat us back to the barn.

During the second day, Moe moved on and off the pasture a couple times, sometimes trotting, sometimes shifting between a stiff canter and the gait his genealogy gave him. It was fun to watch him move out a bit, especially given it cost him valuable grazing time. And while I figured they’d be on to me and my carrots, they once again cooperated without complaint as I escorted them back to the hay racks after an hour on the good stuff.

I love them more than most beings in my world, and would like to believe the feeling is mutual, but in my heart of hearts, I know that in early May, the hearts of my horses beat for the bounty of new grass. So, I should’ve known…

Day 3 ruined any adolescent reverie and revealed the secret to the mystery behind all the movement. I buckled Moe’s halter under his chin, ran a hand under his belly, admiring the Appaloosa spots poking through the remains of his winter coat, and noticed his slightly swollen, slightly bloody underside.

Gnats.

The irritating insects had been feasting, getting their pound of horseflesh while leaving swaths of dark and crusty pinpricks on Chicago’s and Moe’s bellies, chests and ears.

Fortunately, scratching the scabby strips makes us all feel better, so we enjoyed a little extra grooming time, then prepared for battle.

Fly masks now shield the eyes and ears, and a generous application of insect repellant ointment protects the rest.

The ointment comes in a jar with the choice of neon pink or clear, and as you might expect, the discerning geldings of Four Sticks Farm opt for application of the invisible. No need to call attention to oneself. Especially if we’re talking biting bugs in sensitive areas.

It’s a sticky substance that coats my hands with horse hair and gnat crust, and adheres to the underside of my fingernails from now ‘til Labor Day – the Four Sticks Farm French manicure – but it’s effective, even as it melts with the heat of the horses, leaving spots of greasy, gnat-bite-free, patches on their glossy spring coats. Practical before pretty.

So, the gnats are here, the flies will follow momentarily, along with mosquitoes, wasps and barn spiders.

But the grass is green, the trees have popped, as have the hostas, ferns and day lilies.

A beautiful day in this neighborhood.

Rainy Days and Reading. Or Not

A friend loaned me a book at the end of March, and I planned to read it before I next see her at the beginning of May.

“Plan” is a word I’ve learned to use lightly, as some stronger lifeforce likes to play with the power of the plot twist.

My road to reading time, paved with good intention, is often detoured by a host of omnipresent obstacles. Barn work, housework, yard work, work work, family events and adventures, text conversations about family events and adventures, phone calls about family events and adventures, dog walking, horse grooming, cat coddling and blog post writing, act as roadblocks to my books.

But Sunday’s rainy weather proved to be a perfect indoor-recess kind of day – finally, a day for doing nothing but getting lost in another time, another world.

Morning chores were completed under cloudy skies with cool temps and fine rain falling. Chicago and Moe stood in the mist long enough to be wet enough to remove “Brush horses” from the day’s To Do list, so they came in the barn for a long, leisurely lunch.

Rowdy and Ruff were still recovering from two days of rabblerousing with Remi during a cousin dog sleepover, which allowed us to skip a cold walk on a muddy trail without threat of any rambunctious ramifications.

So, prop up the pillows and open up the book! However, the view from my couch was one of copious clumps of Ruffian fluff covering the front of every furnace vent, clustered in every corner and collected under every piece of furniture.

Ruff is our Charlie Brown Christmas tree, dropping strands of silky white hair with any and all movement – sit, stand, lie down, get up, walk, run or jump on the window seat in the back entry. A full body shake brings me near to tears.

But before the Swiffer® sheet comes out, the Bona® wet mop must sop up the splotches of slobber slopped across the hardwood.

Ruffian slurps from the water dish in staccato swipes of the tongue, leaving the surrounding area splashed with spots flicked from his mouth, but Rowdy drops saliva in the bowl as he gulps water out, then dumps a trail out the door as strings of slippery spit stretch to the tile.

We keep a bleached-out beach towel on the bathroom doorknob to wipe his chin when we catch him and swab the floor when we don’t, and because he so often bellies up to the water bowl saloon, there’s a whole lotta wipin’ goin’ on.

Rowdy is also a distracted drinker. When I hear the familiar gulp-gulp-gulp-pause-gulp-gulp-gulp, I sneak in and stand in silent stillness until the last gulp goes down, because if his spidey-sense detects my presence, he’ll turn his head mid-guzzle, dump a pool of slobber on the floor and splatter the wall with a shake of his juicy jowls.

Practice has polished my mop and dust process though, so I quickly cleaned the floor and mentally cleared the remainder of the day for nothing but a book and a beverage.

I opened my book to page 38.

Ninety minutes later I opened my eyes to page 41.

And 2 dogs willing me to get their supper.

And 2 horses calling me to let them out.

At this pace, I’ll finish the book for my friend’s New Years visit.

Bring on those snow days.

Slow Spring

While doing dishes the other night, standing at the kitchen sink, hands soaking in hot soapy water (one of my many peculiarities – I find some peace and satisfaction in this chore) I looked out the window to see six deer strolling along the south fence of the pasture, sauntering out of the cattails on the east side into the woods on the west.

Generally, I’d announce their presence, but cervine sightings create a ruckus with the retrievers, and even George getting up to look out the deck door would alert the always-on-call Ruff and Rowdy, which would provoke much barking and jumping and running from one lookout spot to the next until the last white tail high-tailed into the swamp.

And lulled as I was, by the warm lavender-scented suds, I opted to circumvent the canine chaos and said nothing, just kept the secret as I stood, watched, and wondered where they’d stop to sleep.

Our weak winter offered the deer many dining options and we didn’t see much of them this year, but spring brings them back to call dibs on the fresh pasture. I’m happy to see them, though Chicago and Moe, denied access until the grass gets a chance to establish itself for the season, do not share my sense of hospitality.

Spring also brings a series of addendums to the ever-present list of ideas and intentions that get added, edited, sifted, sorted, and prioritized in my mind.

Fill the long-empty bird feeders for the long-gone birds who flew off in search of a more secure food source
Rake the piles of rejected hay left on the shelter floor by the two indulged geldings who may be just slightly overfed and underworked
Spend some serious time with Chicago, Moe and the shedding blade
Drag the two shamrocks and the peace lily out from their winter refuge under the saddle rack and get them growing before going outside for their summer vacation
Figure a way to get Fennel to the vet for annual vaccinations and examination of a suspected abscess on his right rear leg which morphed into a mysterious series of bald patches circling his tail

I’m a card-carrying member of the Lifelong Listmakers Club, but lately the tasks don’t make the move from my noggin to my notebook or beyond. Not much step in my spring so far.

The animals are always priority of course – stalls are cleaned, feed pans and water buckets filled, and everybody gets conversations, confections, affection, and attention multiple times a day, it’s just the extra activities that get shuffled to the bottom of the never-ending list.

Small things, big things, fun things, dumb things all float around my mind, bubble up and settle down to simmer or to soak while I cogitate, procrastinate, and finally opt to activate.

Funny though, over the weekend I realized that my barn chores are once again serenaded by cardinals, chickadees, robins, wrens, owls and red-winged blackbirds in the trees, while turkeys, pheasants and sandhill cranes chime in from the marsh. So, the feeders are full again.

The black mat of the shelter floor is now clearly visible, devoid of the layer of leftover hay. Turns out that if I feed Chicago and Moe like the easy-livin’ equines they are, rather than putting out enough to fuel a couple draft horses plowing the back forty, they cycle back through the ration a time or two, picking out the pieces that they passed over previously.

A few exfoliating sessions in the mud puddles of the “dry lot” have helped them self-shed, shiny summer coats starting to peek through the crusted dirt that’ll clean up quickly with a curry comb.

The shamrocks and the peace lily pushed up through the potting soil despite my inattention, and their tenacity inspired me to add a little fertilizer-infused water to aid the effort.

Fennel’s skin has healed, his hair is growing back, and since we’ve mutually agreed to call an end to his veterinary visits, the cat crate has been removed from the barn, so he no longer eyes me with suspicion, nor bolts when I get close enough to touch him. He trusts me. He really trusts me.

“Slowing down doesn’t mean giving up” said my Calm app the other day. Timely, welcome words. Sometimes it’s ok to take a minute to let the universe unfold.

To stand silently at the sink and wonder where the deer are headed.

Don’t tell the dogs.

Winter Weather

March was mostly a lamb, mild and meek
Devoid of its usual bleak.
I thought we’d get lucky
But now it’s quite mucky
From the 15-inch snowfall last week.

Chicago’s quite light on his feet
When the sun shines its spring-level heat.
The barn roof of snow
Warms up, then lets go
And slides off in one big noisy sheet.

For the most part, Moe took it in stride
But he’d rather be out than inside.
He pooped in his bucket
His version of F*#@ it
When he heard the first rooftop snow slide.

Ruff and Rowdy thought snow piles were grand
Loved to play in the white-covered land.
Never minded the cold
They burrowed and rolled
Chasing snowballs, they climbed and the ranned.

The cats hunkered down in the barn shop
Out the door, two tabbies would not pop.
They had food, choice of stall
To take care of it all
Content ‘til they saw the last snow drop.

We may still have one last winter fling
Warm weather’s not yet a sure thing.
But the air has less chill
And the birds have more trill
So there’s hope, it will really be spring.

Progress

Ruffian and I took our debut solo walk last week, heading out on the 2-mile dirt road loop across the street, and despite my doubts, it turns out he is (mostly) willing and able to leave home without Rowdy.

He looked back once or twice, but I never gave him time to consider the distance growing between him and home. Cheerful encouragement and enthusiastic curiosity kept us moving along with no hint of the dreaded Ruffian refusal. No stopping, stiff legged, frozen in his tracks, engaging all available senses to detect threat and decide direction.

In fact, next to Boone, the old brindle greyhound who subscribed to a deeply held belief that one ought to stop and smell the roses, the daffodils, the daisies, the dandelions and the assorted grasses that grew along the edges of the road; Ruff proved himself my most pleasant canine walking partner.

Full disclosure here – there was no perfect heel position, but neither was there insistence that he stretch to the full four feet allowed between the brass clip under his chin and the leather loop in my hand. The holy grail of loose-leash dog walking, a j-hook of slack in the leash. What a feeling!

When we crested the small hill between a frog pond and a fenced pasture and saw two trail horses with their stoking-capped riders headed our way. Ruff froze. Stock still, staring at the approaching equines like he’d never noticed the pretty palomino and the handsome sorrel paint living on the other side of the dog yard barrier in his own backyard.

We humans waved at each other as I tried to convince Ruffian that forward progress was, in fact, still possible under these circumstances. But Ruffian had entrenched himself in the I’ll wait here camp. So, implement Plan B – move his brain, then move his feet.

I asked him to sit, a word at the top of his lexicon list, and with which he is situationally conversant. A hand resting on the door handle means “please sit pal;” a treat hovering just above his nose says, “park your posterior partner” and an index finger in front of the food dish indicates “find a seat friend.”

But horseback riders on the road did not translate, so I went back to basics, getting his eyes up with one hand while tapping his rump down with the other. And it worked just as they reached us, thanking us for waiting while they walked by, and impressed by the solid sit, though their position down in the ditch prevented them from seeing that his excellently executed sit stuck us solidly in the middle of the road.

Fortunately, the gravel road travel gods held off the afternoon traffic, so we faced no Chicken Challenge by any neighborhood car, pickup or ATV; and once convinced that any danger had passed with the now-distant equines, Ruff trotted merrily all the way home.

Our little rabblerouser is learning. The Attrition through Extinction method has worked its magic, along with Ruff’s response to routine.

He’ll still occasionally go for a golf shoe or barn boot but will almost immediately lie down and move the footwear in his mouth to position for the inevitable “Give” that almost immediately follows.

He heads directly to his crate in the truck when released from the back door even though he’s endured a couple smacks to the skull when he jumps before the tailgate has reached its fully upright and locked position.

He developed a short-lived fondness for scrap paper in the recycling basket, but now backs away empty-mouthed as soon as he hears any verbal disapproval of his garbage collection venture.

Best of all, he’s started to wag his tail when we talk to him. Though he’s always been friendly – overtly, oafishly friendly – always happy to be with us, always sporting a smile in his ebony eyes and his jolly jowls, I noticed that he’d wag his tail while engaged in energetic canine games but not in quiet human conversation.

But now he does, which I take as a sign of security; that he’s learning to trust his place in our pack.

Next up – learning his place on our road.

Sunday Unscheduled

6:37. I wake naturally, notably more rested than when roused by an escalating ringtone or socked with a sandpapery paw pad, and fully aware that I have nothing on the schedule today. It’s one of the rare days with no calendar commitments so I caution myself to not waste it.

Our many meteorologists predict 60-something degrees, also rare, also not to be wasted.

My Unscheduled Schedule: change the sheets, get a couple loads of laundry done early, walk in the park with Ruff and Rowdy, then spend the afternoon in the barn with the big boys, cleaning equines and their winter-weary equipment.

Fresh linens on the bed, others piled on the floor, breakfast is ready, so I’ll haul sheets down to the laundry room after I eat.

While downing my oatmeal and grapefruit, I solve the sudoku, and with coffee I crack the cryptoquip and nearly complete the crossword when I hear the telltale zzzzzzzzzzttt of tearing fabric. Ruffian’s decided to do a bit of tailoring, splitting the seam on one corner of the flat sheet lying on the bedroom floor, preparing to take a little off the edges.

I recognize his universal sign for “I need something constructive to do,” and outdoor activity is in order, so I heap the linens on the washer, vow to do laundry when the sun goes down, and take advantage of our unusual sweatshirt weather with two of the greatest dogs in the whole wide world.

Off to Montissippi to walk with my gentle-leadered goldens, pleased with their minimal attempts to rub off the head collar, the reduction in pulls off the path, and the nearly never occurrences of Ruff dead-stopping in the middle of my path.

The last occurrence was at this park, when he halted abruptly on the pavement, directly in front me, leaving an angry raw scrape that turned into a thick itchy scab that morphed into a scar on the left side of my left knee cap, which pairs nicely with the scar on the right side of my left knee cap, a memorial to a no good very bad day on my beloved purple stingray on the unforgiving gravel of Coon Rapids Boulevard.

But now we mostly keep moving, mostly in our own lanes.

Thinking while I walked, about my pre-spring cleaning barn project, I realize I need hay cubes at the Country Store which closes early on Sunday, so the dogs and I take the long way home from the park, which is to say we drive completely out of our way to get Chicago and Moe’s Senior Supper, a salt block for Chicago and one more thing that’s been on my mental supply list for a couple weeks, but which I’ve now forgotten, and hope I will remember when I get there. But I don’t.

Once home, I let the golden boys in the dog yard with a big stick of distraction for Ruff. Headed to the barn, forty pounds of hay cubes hefted over my shoulder, feeling remarkably heavier than the 50-pound bags I used to haul around,

Horses in, I head out, to rake the rejected hay remnants from the edges of the shelter, loading the wheelbarrow, hauling and dumping and spreading in the dry lot, giving the ponies something to pick through while they pass the next couple of months of closed pasture.

Shelter clean, horses enjoy fresh quarters, fresh hay and fresh air.

Company! Time for a spontaneous beverage break, chatting, chips and whiling away an hour or two. Or three.
Back to the barn to toss hay down into the small storage stall, but first, lift the pallets, sweep, load, haul, dump, and spread; then climb up the ladder, crawl across the bales loaded in the loft, ponder the probability of ever solving the annual mystery of putting up hay in a manner conducive to a convenient, First In, First Out system of inventory management.

Throw 28 bales over the ledge, climb down the ladder, crawl across the bales scattered in the stall, push, pull and pile them in an orderly stack, sweep up the broken bales, fill up the wheelbarrow one more time, and let Moe pick out his favorite pieces while I set some in front of Chicago and parcel out the rest to the feeders for the overnight ration.

Good night ponies.

A little kibble in the cat dishes for Fennel and Mace.

See you in the a.m., kits.

A shower (how does hay even get there?!) some supper and a cocktail that I fall asleep before finishing.

A good day. Not a moment wasted.

And on the Monday schedule – laundry.

Spying Spring

Punxsutawney has Phill, Four Sticks Farm has Fennel.

He’s a conscientious all-season barn cat, committed to keeping the place rid of rodents even in inclement conditions, but sticks to a skeleton schedule during the winter months, paring down the perimeter of his patrol, turning up the tempo of his trot, and using his vacation time to burrow in his cat bed. Just the basics ma’am.

But our little summoner of spring has started to emerge earlier and oftener from the confines of his cozy den in the heated barn shop.

As I make way to the barn in the pre-dawn hours, more days than not, I detect a shadowy block hunkered down near the end of the walkway. Fennel surveys my approach with his natural night-vision goggles, then advances toward me arched-back and fuzzed-fur, hopping in a sideways crab-like catwalk.

Proper identification presented, business stated, he turns toward the tack room and escorts me to my targeted destination for completion of my mission – breakfast.

The later I am, the closer to the house he is, sometimes jumping through the deck rails to bestow Rowdy with a good-morning chin rub, sometimes abruptly about-facing to lead me down the walk.

Based on the palpable pressure of 3 eyes piercing the diminishing darkness from the depths of the barn shelter, I suspect Moe and Chicago occasionally recruit Fennel for a reconnaissance mission, sending him to scout any activity around the house that would signal engagement of mealtime movements.

Like a couple others around here, Fennel is working to shed the seasonal excess, snacking on the shamrock in the tack room to supplement the chicken kibble, scratching the hayloft ladder to stretch his spine and bulk up his biceps, running wind sprints in the alley and high-jumping onto the trunk of a pasture elm tree, employing the pitons of his paws to pause long enough to make eye contact and elicit admiration for his exceptional climbing skills.

He’ll be fit for battle before the barn swallows return from wherever it is they spend their snowbird months.

We’ve still got a little winter to weather, but the brighter days are on the horizon. Pitchers and catchers have reported, Reese’s peanut butter hearts have been replaced by peanut butter eggs, and stalls are now clean before sunset.

And Fennel has re-upped, ready to return to the fulltime duty roster.

What Chicago and Moe Know

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.”

Wintertime at Fours Sticks Farm

We were coddled by a mild December
Spared the snow and cold that we remember
But the new year brought a frigid change
Which made the winter not so strange

I bundle up and trundle out to live this life I’ve chosen
With gratitude for thick warm socks and boots to slide my toes in
The weight and bulk of extra layers make daily chores take longer
But I muddle through and I’m still here, so I guess I must be stronger?

Ruff and Rowdy are always game to hike the trails at the park
But our daily treks are shorter now, to be sure we’re back by dark
They like the rhythm of routine, how it connects to time to eat
They recognize it’s mealtime, and when they get their treat

Youthful Fennel still patrols the perimeter of the grounds
Frosty footing shall not stop him from his self-appointed rounds
But oldster Mace stays in the barn throughout the winter season
With food and heat and comfy beds, and horse stalls that he pees in

Chicago and Moe in shaggy coats survive the frigid weather
In their shelter full of forage, standing close together
For snack they head to pasture, with its scattered piles of hay
To ensure they move a little bit, every single day

The outside chores begin and end within the hours of sunlight
Except for final barn check in the dark and peaceful night
When I plant a couple kisses on a couple frosty muzzles
Then head back in to settle down, with a beverage and some puzzles

This longer stretch of darkness grants permission to just be
To read and dream and organize and maybe watch tv
Our winter standard time is not so governed by the clock
A season of serenity, I try to pause and think, relax, take stock