He sat at the kitchen table with both hands flat, palms down, letting his fingers slip in and out of the grooves routed in its cool oak surface. He stared for a time down over the pasture to the pond. It was morning but hard to tell how early. He felt like he’d been up a long time since he came in from the barn, hours before first light. But the sky was overcast, a gray dome of diffused indifferent glare. There was just a little wind.

The clock above the stove said not yet eight, and he knew that she would not like to proceed in such weather, but the task could not be put aside. He was burning daylight. Clouds or no, the day was getting warmer, and the heat of day would only bring more misery.

In the barn, he went first to her stall and looked down where she lay on her side in the hay. Her head was covered with an old Navajo blanket, but he knew her eyes were closed because he had closed them. Her tongue was a little out between her teeth, because there was nothing he could do about that. But her coat was russet and shining in the light from the doors. He thought about brushing her one more time, but she was truly through with such things.

He considered calling a neighbor, so maybe he could get some help. No. All I have to do is this, then that. The next right thing. Like words in their order, or how you tie a knot. Step by step until I get it done. It’s mine to do and mine alone. Not every man has fallow land and half a day to spend on death, let alone kindness.

He used the sling, the block and tackle, and in an hour had her up and swung out to the center of the barn, laid gently on a tarp. This he folded over her, wrapped her well and bound her around with rope. Then backed the front-loader through the doors and chained it to the load. And so they went, old man on the tractor, horse in her great canvas blanket. Down over the pasture, past the pond and up the hill.

It’s just love lingering
in a gray day alone.
Just love, or the pull of the wind
to where it goes beyond the hill.

The sun broke through slowly as he used the machine to make the hole, paused to remove his cap and wipe the sweat from his head with a rag. He remembered that she liked to work cattle.

© 2005 by Kyle Kimberlin
all rights reserved