Morning Ritual
Mornings, much as I am slow to approach them, bring barn blessings and pasture prayers. Our lovliest stallion wuffles soft fog into the cold air, nostrils pressed to the bars of his stall as if today might be the first day I will forget him in his solitude. Buckets shared with the elders, mealtime grace breathed over their bodies as I move to deliver their breakfast. My colt waits at the pasture gate, sometimes with the stoic faith that comes from knowing the routine, others with youthful impatience that makes my feet slower, for I am not one that rewards the clanging bell of his hoof on the gate. Then he is let into the pen where he can apply himself to the feed required for any young, growing thing that we wish to bear fruit someday. And once all are provided for, I carry the last pan of pellets, swinging it like a thurible as I walk into the my church, the pasture, and set it at the feet of the draft mare. The herd knows this routine, most content to wait in the sun's benedict...