From Etchings
"When I was a boy, see, we had several horses. They were, uh, let's see..." After slight trepidation, "Mustangs. Yep, they were mustangs." He cocks his head left with a slight glance at this grandson. "Well, one year the mare ready to give birth see. I had taken off for a while on chores and when I come back I seen the mare give birth to a foal." The grandson and his wife smile to hear him talk of the farm.
"See, the mare didn't have the instinct for birthing and never licked the foal clean. When I came up, the foal was dead." His eyes slump barely enough to notice. "So I took my shovel up to bury the foal, but those Mustangs wouldn't let me near it. Well, I knew they'se afraid of the car, so I drove up so as to make room. Those Mustangs scattered and I dug my hole, then buried the foal."
The grandson pictures a field in Rushville, where horses roam in a pasture. His elder assumes a tone of deep reflection in a story connecting him to the past.
"Well, those horses knew right where the foal was buried and began walking in a circle around it. They just walked and walked until the ground was pushed in, just like this." He held his hands nearly one foot apart as their eyes widened at the thought of such a spectacle.
"Through the rest of their time there, those horses NEVER entered that circle again. They ate all the grass in that field, but inside that circle the grass grew tall." A man of few words evokes the strong simplicity of interconnectedness.
