by Ethel Mortenson Davis
There comes a time,
when there is a slowing,
when the snow is too heavy
and too deep,
when I cannot put
the black harness
on the back of my little horse,
so I must walk it back
to the tack-room
through thigh-high drifts,
and that is when I catch
a glimpse of her
through the open barn door.
She is munching a mound of hay
from last summer’s days,
and it is the sound of happiness.
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