By the fence line,
where thistle gives up and grass returns.
Her horns had learned the shape of my hands.
She knew buckets, knew names,
knew when evening meant grain.
Years ago the mare
went down slower.
A long breath.
Steam rose like the field exhaling.
All that weight, all that patience,
returned to dirt without argument.
My Baxter-dog was hardest.
He followed me room to room
even after he could barely stand.
I kept talking so he wouldn’t think
the world had gone silent first.
Now mornings open clean.
No hooves, no bleat, no nails on wood.
Just wind touching what remains.
I still step careful through the yard,
as if they’re sleeping everywhere.
Nothing waits for me.
Everything does.