Walking the Dog

The old grove is rich with lilac fragrance and waning daylight.  Nestled between the bank of the creek and the bank of the pond, the Palominos and the Paints graze on small patches of tender greens in the hollow of thick, bent cottonwoods. Along the road, fallen locust petals bunch at base of growing grass blades.

Even spring ages, it seems.

Wooden posts stand their ground despite charring from mountain fires that thoughtlessly wandered across the plains. Still. And stubbornly holding wire fence bulging from where these ponies have tried their boundaries.

A crack.
A rustle.
A dull thunder of hooves as horses hurry up the slope, toward the lumbering truck filled with bales of hay. 

Slowly, the grove falls silent save the spring breeze.  Although summer beckons, it is hard to glean much about the coming season.  I turn to walk on, toward the creek, and zip my jacket against the chill.