Twice a day, two flakes of hay
(about a quarter of a bale), he’d need
from the supply I’d set out in the barn
and shown my city-slicker sister —
the substitute feeder of Scotch Track,
my quarter horse.

Laid up, fresh from back surgery
I’ve relinquished the chore to her,
(a nervous but keen novice),
for her lengthy planned stay here.

Days now I’ve watched, resigned to
my kitchen window view, as morning and evening,
in my Wellingtons she’s traipsed off
boned up well ahead of time
on the protocol of barn hooks, lights, latches
and all the don’ts and do’s.

Scotch has made fast tracks her way
since the start. At every sign of her approach
he’s gone over to her, with a stop
at the fence along the way.
But she’s kept steadfast on her route,
so with a toss of his head, he’s always moved on
to reach the barn door first.

In this first week, through ugly October winds
and rains, the horse and she at their routine times
have traveled their parallel paths
either side of the long line fence,
each to the same destination,
opposite sides.

At times I’ve seen him nose-to-the-door,
as if to block her in or make a break and enter
(or so it would seem to her, she’d later tell me)
one day even stomping the ground hard
as she worked inside.

Each time, I’ve witnessed the sudden fling out of hay,
through a slivered opening,
(my sister’s head and hands barely visible)
his meal landing close below his face.

His munch soon begun, she’s shut the latch fast
and retreated back to me,
Scotch watching her departure, emptily.

Today’s crisp dawn brings stronger sun
and my sister’s new effort in body language, firmer voice
to show confidence. From across the back field
he senses her, gallops right over. She backs off fast.

Over the dark slats of their division,
he stands, stares, neighs,
but she marches on, not stopping
to engage.

Soon the flakes appear, again the door shuts right away.
My horse peers back toward the house
whining and tossing his head, as if to solicit
my sympathy.

With a rush back here, in clear relief
shaky and flushed, she describes
the “beast’s” ambush this time at the fence,
his hooves storming her way.
And how assertive he still acts
when she reaches out to feed him.

”Don’t you see?” I exclaim, “Scotch is stating
he needs more out of you
than two flakes of hay twice a day?
In all your comings and goings
you’ve never given him a pat on the neck
or stopped to stroke his mane.”

It’s taking great pains
much worse than those from surgery
but I‘ve nearly convinced her
all this horse has been trying to win
is a regular meet and greet.

10/22/2005