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  • On those early winter evenings when I walk back to the big yellow house after feeding my norwegian fjord horse, I sometimes like to sit on the porch steps in his company.

    Together, we enjoy the stars. The impatient, bitter, wind barges through, ruffling fur and hair alike.

    But I am there. I feel his steady heart beat in the tight grasp of my Carhartt-clad arms.

    The wind slowly retraces its steps, quietly ruffling fur and hair alike in the other direction.

    And he is there. His front legs dangle a little more lazily over my lap. He occasionally peers up at me with those big, loving, brown eyes.

    And I’m sure he’s listening.
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