2003-11-22 - 10:16 a.m.
They are gone.
It is just coming on dark as I stand in the driveway, looking north, my gaze crossing the gap where the road passes, looking for some sign they might still be here. The unfinished barn, half open to my side, is empty, as are the fields divided into segments of paddock and pasture enclosed by thin wire fencing flagged with white streamers hanging limp in the air. There is no movement, no sound, not even a light on in the house. And then I recall from yesterday the long, enclosed livestock trailer backed up to the end of the drive. Suddenly, though I knew then what that trailer presaged, the world seems far too quiet and still.
I will remember five year old Shelby forever, her hair shining gold in the bright sun, sitting on the swing and laughing while the dogs played a rough version of tag, circling and barking at her feet.
I will remember the peacocks, screeching what seemed their death knells into the abyss of approaching night. I will remember the burro, bellowing unpredictably whenever she came into heat. I will remember the sheep, which later turned out really to be goats, grazing placidly against the slowly intensifying green backdrop of spring.
I will remember the horses, especially. The miniature ones in their heyday numbering perhaps a dozen, and the large ones, fewer but faster, galloping in abandon, revelling in the apotheosis of dance as they happily moved over the ridge which was, all too briefly, their playground and stage between this earth and sky.
I will remember the single black angus bull, still too young to be a danger, standing on the pile of gravel opposite my spring, his gaze bridging the gulf between us, meeting mine.
And I will remember my very first visitors, the two black dogs who came over after dark that first night, not knowing I was here, and being startled to find me.
Oh God, I will remember all of that, all of them, for as long as I'm here.
