This morning, I finished the last stall and propped
my rake against the wall. I was dusting my hands off on the front of one of my
favorite old grungy t-shirts when I glanced up and saw a doe standing in the
paddock with us (well, me, really,
but I’m counting the minis too). She stood, tawny and lanky and wet-nosed and
as graceful as a deer can be beneath the dew-glazed leaves of a pecan tree. My
brother’s mini gelding, Spoof, trotted to me and plastered himself against the
fronts of my legs, his little nostrils flared, startled. She stared at us and
we stared at her, and then she was gone, leaping over the fence in one bound
from a standstill, cantering off through the forest.
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