Free Winter Run by Robert Ashcom

stairs with his sweater, Charlie heard the crash and knew what had happened. Not in his thinking mind, but he knew just the same, knew that he had made the rope too long. Then he was running, dropping the sweater in his haste. As he rounded the loading chute, he saw from the corner of his eye old Bat at the foot of the hill, walking toward him. Brown, too, had heard the strange noise and was coming in a hurry.
    She was upside down on the outside of the barn with the door still closed and the rope lead still tied inside, short enough that it held her head half way up the door as she thrashed and thrashed, her hooves hitting the door like sledge hammers.
    Charlie knew he could not go close enough to free her. Her feet were dangerous beyond any willfulness on her part. In fear and anger and with all her strength, she was trying to free herself. Her eyes were unseeing.
    From high above the barn, the red tail whistled. Brown went half crazy. He bounced around the pony on stiff legs, darting at her, barking—suddenly caught up by some deep part of his nature that saw her as a grass eater, helpless, prey. Charlie screamed at him.
    She had gashed her side on the sharp edge of one of the old boards on the door as she had jumped out. Blood was mingling with the dirt as she struggled. Then the rope broke and the pony leaped up. She stood stiff, legs apart, her tail swishing back and forth, spreading the blood along her flanks, turning them a dull red.
    The dog came to his senses and Charlie approached the pony. She raised her head and looked as if she would let him catch her. But Charlie hesitated as he reached for what was left of the lead rope. She jerked back and trotted off around the barn and up the hill, still swishing her tail. The boy followed, calling her name. But she didn’t stop. He knew where she wasgoing. He could have taken a shortcut and arrived before she did. Instead he followed her along the old path. She slowed to a walk, but he made no effort to catch up.
    Once in the boneyard she would go to her tree and turn to face him. He would approach her with his left hand outstretched, holding a little grass that he had picked up along the way, patting the grass with his right hand, calling her name. The bleached bones in the clearing would be shining in the late morning sun. Her ears would be forward, the rope from her halter hanging to the ground, her tail steadily swishing the blood along her flanks. There would be a breathless pause. Then he would reach for the rope. At the last moment, she would pull back. Just beyond his reach. Again and again. Ever receding, as if into a dream. And the young hawk circling overhead would be watching through mysterious eyes.

Backfire
    It began that spring as a whisper, a dry rustling of last year’s leaves across our landscape. There was dust everywhere. The corn came up, but by the first of June it stopped growing. Sunrise and sunset turned red. A sudden spurt of rain in late June helped the corn shoot up a little more—but that was all. The first cutting of hay was the last one for the season. People began to worry.
    The pastures at Silver Hill were all broom sage, but in the spring they usually turned green for a while with the new growth. But not that year. By August the state began to put signs along the roads warning of fire hazard.
    All the important people in my life were gardeners: Matthew grew vegetables, and Will, my godfatherpriest, and Gretchen, my mother, grew flowers. It was more than a hobby for all of them. Somehow the growth of the plants had a hold on them. They measured a part of their lives by how the gardens were doing. By imitation, so did I.
    It was during that first summer of the drought that I heard the prayer for rain. And from then on—because the drought seemed to last forever—I heard the prayer every Sunday: “Send us, we beseech thee, in this our necessity, such moderate rain and showers, that we may receive the fruits of the earth to our comfort,