The Last Pasture

Journal

Dusty is twenty-two. I took his saddle off last spring and promised him grass for the rest of his days.

He still meets me at the gate.

I kept the promise.

He still puts his face in my jacket as if I might be hiding an apple.

I am. I always am.

He takes it like a secret we both keep.

We walk the fence line slow.

The mountains don't hurry, and neither does he.

We did not rush.

He is not useful anymore. He is better than useful.

He is mine, and I am his.

That is the whole contract.

At the far corner he stopped, the way he used to before a gate.

There is no gate anymore. He waited for me anyway.

I told him we were done for the day.

He followed me back as if I had asked.

We went home.