black horse in the snow

black horse in the snow

eating dry grass from my hand --

where are you going?

Ever since the two young bulls disappeared, the little black horse has been staying close to the little red barn. On a snowy day I stop to see how she's faring. Her nose is buried in freshly fallen snow, seeking tender grass among the brittle weeds. Her black coat stands out against the whiteness. When she sees me approach, she looks up and walks towards me, which surprises me. When she kept company with the bulls, they usually moved away when I appeared. 
          Now she stops and surveys me for a moment. I'm wearing a furry brown hat, brown coat, brown gloves, brown boots, and the black camera I'm holding up to my face might look like a black nose. Perhaps she thinks I'm one of her lost companions. But maybe I'm not giving her enough credit for knowing the difference between a four-legged and a two-legged animal. In any case, she pushes on through the snow to the fence where I'm standing. 

          Her mane is still matted with burrs and her back is a little wet from the snow, but her thick coat must keep her warm. She sticks her head over the low fence and I scratch behind her ears. She nuzzles my hand. What, no apples? Tangerine, yuck! She pushes my hand away, so I pull some long grass and feed it to her. Some of it gets caught in her mane and some of it drops on the ground, but she manages to swallow a little of my offering. The grass on this side of the fence is about as scarce as on her side, so I quickly run out. While she's rummaging around on the ground for the bits she dropped, I start to walk away. She looks up, a stalk of grass dangling from her mouth. What, you're leaving? Where are you going? Are you coming back?

          Maybe I'm reading too much into those pleading eyes, but I feel sad leaving her alone again. Horses do form lasting friendships, usually with other horses, but in her case I believe she misses those two brown bulls. Next time, I tell her, I'll bring apples.