The early dawn sky to the west is a pale blue, tinged with the sort of soft pink that only shows in this time of night’s fading into day, the time between dark and sun. These gentle strokes of pastel suggest a tenderness that offers a soothing to the soul.

In this quietness, the horses stand together in the round pen beside the white stable, heads hung over the top rail, staring toward the house. There seems to be a reproving look in their expression, an accusation of tardiness in my attending to morning chores. Maybe it’s my slight guilt that leads to that interpretation but at any rate, I slip on my boots, pick up the feed bucket and head toward the shed. Action is often the best balm for idleness.

Jack, the black Tennessee Walker, makes a low-pitched throaty noise and moves toward the stable. I don’t know if the sound he is making is anticipation or reprimand but the fact that he is heading toward his feed bucket signifies expectation, at least. Maybe he was just clearing his throat.

I have seen with horses, at least, that little else so moves one toward pardon as a bucketful of fresh feed. How could they reject such tangible repentance?

H. Arnett
12/19/11