By Claire Stockwell
An old stock horse, slurps from the trough
He once stood strong and tall,
Was quick with the instinct of a veteran.
Now, two decades on, he stands frail
His spine, each bone defined under his skin.
He shakes, but loads into the trailer
Steady, like he always has.
He’s moving to a better paddock.
Closer to the homestead, where he can be fed.
He whinnies out to the friends from his old paddock, but
he
is
alive.
Heifers, two-year-old cattle
All crowded around the trough.
The bore had turned off,
The tank was nearly empty.
Careless, forgetful
How did it go unnoticed?
We start the bore and
Fill the trough enough for them to drink.
We sit with them, make sure
That no one starts a fight.
The bore still runs, the troughs are all full.
They
are
alive.
I never really noticed
Until today,
How your heart beats faster when it’s hot.
Climbing temperatures, humidity building
No hope of relief from rain yet.
Yet.
It’s only September.
The horses revel when washed,
Dogs jump in the trough,
While we jam as much ice into our water bottles
As we can.
It’s hot, it’s hard, but
we
are
alive.
