Death of a Horse Stable Owner

Death is a vibe that permeates the air and blows across the deserted, potholed parking lot, overgrown with weeds and dust

I pause in bewilderment, scanning the yard neglected.

My eyes strain for riders hurling their mounts over ever increasing jumps and meet the wind whistling around corners of an empty arena.

My ears probe the vacuum, seeking life and movement and mourn horses missing from their stalls munching hay, an absence of neighs and squeals, collected canters around the round pen

horse trailers crowding, chatter, children smart dressed for their lessons in helmets and boots and would be cowboys dressed for The Stampede.

Instead, a mechanized voice directs me to a telephone voice mail, the destination of every futile call.

An invisible trauma invades relentlessly, disturbing the visitor and holds me with a grip.

Something happened here, an unexpected death, resented.

In sympathy I feel his anger at those who would intrude.

How many yesterdays ago did I speak to this stranger before the blackness of warmth descended upon him as it does eventually for all farmers slumbering in their graves?

They have peace but for him only a deep sadness of grief for the interruption of what could have been and regret for what was, haunting the perimeter.

He's still here, standing on the sidelines, reluctant to leave his home and horses without water, stalls without straw, board fees uncollected

and so I do, instead, slamming the car door shut

before he can follow me home.