Another sleepless night in a field of wonder as Christmas approached.

It’s Christmas Eve here in Texas, full Christmas in the Orient, and just past midnight mass in Europe as I write this. I wear mistletoe in my hair and stay out with the herd to share the sunset together. The gold turning amber of the sun’s last rays illuminated stray streaks of hair tufting off the mule boys ears as it passed the horizon over their shoulders. Patterns of russet and orange mottled by shadows gave their coats the semblance of a strange wild animal’s, colored to blend into the depths of some far off jungle. My parti-colored donkey, Duke, raised his muzzle and greeted the approaching dusk with a sharp inhalation followed by the drawn out bellow and wheeze of his full vocal repertoire. The three mules added their softer refrain to his song.

As the last tone ceased resonating across the pond, and the decibel created ripples started dying down, my fish broke the surface in urgent, tail slapping “Feed us now” gestures. Starting toward them, I felt the brush of wings overhead. The wood cranes and egrets were coming in to settle for the night. Swirling like leaves caught in the autumn wind the great birds fluttered and stooped toward the waiting pond. Two of the standardbreds that had been drinking from the clear water lifted their heads and watched the flock with wondering eyes. Lady guided the new baby horse past the others to the water’s edge and stood guard as he drank his fill. He arrived here as a mother-missing weanling to her baby-loving delight. She soon kissed his tears away and he has accepted this massive white horse in place of his dainty bay mother, following happily where she leads.

My two yard horses, Big Mike and Woody, are content with each other. Mike has a terrible, muscle-severing gash in his belly and will be on an intensive regimen of soaking, medicine, kisses, and prayers for many months. A gregarious horse, he did not take well to being separated from the herd and at first refused to eat alone. Woody is the mildest of horses, one of the standardbreds with a floating gait and gentle heart. He is the Omega of the herd, destined to go last at everything and too diffident to push for recognition. A perfect companion for gentle injured Mike, he is drawing confidence from being needed. Earlier today, they were taking turns peering into the front windows of the house and commenting audibly to each other on all they saw inside. Like naughty little boys, they punctuated their conversation with shuffling feet and short pokes of their noses at the windows. In the growing dusk, they stand shoulder to shoulder sharing a bale of sweet hay together.

I move toward the back fence again, needing to kiss more noses and count heads one more time before going in. Chief, an elderly appaloosa, is shadowing the love of his life as she stalks across the pasture chasing the impossible dream of being Alpha mare of my herd. Unfortunately, only in his eyes is she number one, and he is an unavoidable appendage in hers. For a moment they are frozen in my sight; she thrusting ahead towards Lady, and he an eternal heart wrenching few steps behind. John Keats’s Ode on a Grecian Urn comes to mind: “Bold Lover, never, never canst thou kiss, Though winning near the goal—yet, do not grieve; She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy bliss, For ever wilt thou love, and she be fair!” I blow kisses towards him as he voicelessly pleads for her to slow down a bit. A small bay mare pulls in behind him and starts to groom him. Shaken, he stops and lets Shady Spring caress his neck. Ah, justice has come a bit early this year. Chief has a suitor for his favors after all, and she is young and fair. His forgotten tormenter is stranded alone without her protector as Lady looks up and prepares to defend her lead mare status with posture and attitude. The dark shuts off the tableau from my sight and I can only fantasize about what will happen next. It is so still, surely if there is conflict I would hear it.

It’s completely dark now and as I turn to head toward the welcoming glow of the house, a faint breath stirs the mistletoe in my hair and brushes my cheek. I stop and start to turn toward a faint silhouette, puzzled as to who is near. A soft, low sound fills the night. There is a noise horses make when they see their first born, when life is precious and filled with joy, when someone rooted deep in the heart comes near. It is a nicker on inhalation, a sweet low acknowledgement of love. That was the sound surrounding me and only one horse ever had that tenor depth to his tone when he greeted me that way. I felt my heart leap even as tears of his remembered passing blinded me. Beside me now were several smoke hazed shadows, one a tall white stallion, two many colored paints, a bay, several chestnuts, and oh more behind them. A gentle tug on my braid spun me around, and then…they were gone into the night. Color banded gaps in the night appear as ghostly hoof prints and from the edge of tomorrow comes the refrain of the others as they greet the unearthly and watch the Rainbow Bridge go back up into the sky. Wings pull the air above my head. I look up to see my mistletoe fall an impossible distance back down to me. I pick it up to smell the faint lingering fragrance of sweet horse scent then clutch it close to my heart. Distant bells toll as Christmas spreads it’s magic over the Last Refuge and rushes headlong toward all of you.

© Carol M Chapman 12-24-2003