silent night.
There is something so satisfying in grooming a horse clean through the winter scruff, and the look of a stall after it’s been mucked out; when the aisle’s been swept down to bare cement, and flakes of hay have been distributed, and the horses turned out into the pastures for the night in their heavy blankets.
Just squinting against the wind to watch the herd’s warm breath rising in choruses over the snow.
