There's something special about the morning light - it evokes memories of days gone by - dreams that were - dreams that could have been - and hopes that are alive today. But now the morning light is swallowed by the barn - dark as pitch through the open split door. It's a barn built by the hands of a man to shelter his wife's horse. After decades of life, it is quiet now.
There is no more nickering or snorting or stamping or clomping. It is quiet now.
The freshly trimmed lawn leads down to and merges with the former pasture. Many of the fence rails have been removed - an enclosure is no longer necessary. It is quiet now.
The fence posts that for decades felt the muzzle of a horse who wanted a scratch, now stand weathered and waiting to find some purpose once again. The simple posts that somehow held back a thousand pound horse as he stood looking toward the house where his favorite human was inside. It is quiet now.
The barn that once held hay and halters, now holds bikes and sunbeams and the memories of a steaming horse on a cold winter morning waiting to be fed. It is quiet now.
And in the silence, ever so faintly, the soft whisper of the memory of what was - the sound of hooves echo in the dust. It is quiet now.
That is beautiful.
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