THREE HORSES IN THE DAY

Beyond some long white stretches of fence, slightly weathered with interesting cracks and shades, but still bright for the light of the sun, stood three horses in the day. They were all dark of hair, and relaxed. As they languidly grazed upon the ground, a silent jet came past in the Northern distance. They did not notice. Those old horses were good folks. They did not fight, argue, or wrestle with ideas. They just walked around, lounged around. Their manes shone in the sun, and their legs, strong and knowing, met the earth with just the right angle. Sometimes a bit of wind would blow some hair up and this hair on their heads would dance itself over, the blue and white sky beyond as a background. I stood and watched from the gravel road, a long one lane highway with vexatious trucks that barrel through night and day. But still, those trucks are all part and parcel of it. 

A long time ago, there was a white horse, with black markings. It was in a bag, a plastic bag, -

and I carted out the bag and brought out the horse. One day one of the back legs broke off, and you could see into the horse. But, the horse was still the horse, - kind, silent, and strong, - full of a certain prowess. I think I walked the horse over couches, along desks, down along carpets and on great wide sills where aloe vera plants sat receiving the summer sun. To think, to think, to think, - that it’s the same sun now that shines down upon those horses. Vroom, a truck goes past, - but the horses don’t bother, don’t startle. I keep looking, flashed a picture, then another frame, and move quietly around, try to feel the air,- some knowledge or wisdom in the air, the ground, the sun, the sides of old abode in the distance. I can’t sense much. There is something about the horses though.

A very old man once told me stories. He said that there was a horse ranch, and someone was

stealing the horses late at the night. So, the owner stayed up and watched, under the moon, under the starry firmament, under the gaze of the old sagacious owl. And sure enough, - the thief came along, and jumped the fence, - maybe a fence like this one- this white fence. Maybe it was this very fence in fact! - One never knows. Perhaps just as the light of the sun shines on it in the day, the illumined and illuminating moon shone on it then, - and there is a chance it was a new fence, and a new moon. The thief guided the horses out, a couple, to his friend on the other side, opening the gate down the way. But the owner confronted them and they spoke, - they talked it out. (The storyteller was a peaceful person and this was projected in his stories). As it turned out, - the thieves though doing a bad act, were not harmful or evil persons. Something had happened on their ranch, and they needed the horses. So, the owner gave them a few horses and everybody went on their way. (Cormac McCarthy would not like this story but that is the way it was told).

Well, I sat there with my own plastic horse, the drapes heavy with a good dark thread count and the strong and sure afternoon ray streaming in like laser beams. Which brings one back to the sun. It was high, so high in the afternoon’s sky. One of the horses, the closest one, brought up its head and looked upon me. We stared at one another briefly, but he was somehow older, calmer, and more mature. He knew something. I looked down, and stepped back, towards the long asphalt way. From the gravel shoulder on the side I hopped up into the driver’s seat and made my way away leaving the three friends to their routine.

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