When I got to the barn, it was deserted. The sun goes down so early in this
season that even I had to overcome the temptation to stay in my bright, warm
house. The barn lights buzzed and cackled as I flipped the switch and woke them
from an early bedtime. I dug my mud boots out of the deep recess of my tack
locker and slipped my feet into them for the first time in a long while.
Ransom seemed eager to leave the dark monotony of his pen for the barn
below, striding next to me with ears pricked toward the lighted arena. I
planned to lunge him, but after I finished grooming, I put my arms around his neck and the
plan changed. He was warm and quiet. I stroked his soft, spotted fur and
watched his eyelids droop. His lower lip sagged and he cocked a hind hoof.
The minutes passed. And passed. I didn’t want to break the moment. Finally
I stepped back and untied his lead rope. The puffs of Ransom’s breath in the
cold air as we walked back evoked a bittersweet memory of another time and
place – of a herd of frosted horses snorting steam into a night much colder
than this. I let my mind go there briefly, but didn’t linger. Instead, I looked
out at the stars and the silhouette of the ridge in the crisp, clear night and
thought, “I’m glad I came.”
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