It was the water trough somehow. Her body covers itself in glossy red her left hind and hoof all gelled over all shining red.
Flesh hangs. Her eyes are not rolled not agitated not blinking. She is awake. She stands, steady, still. She has not
lain in almost years. She will not now. Flesh, curling, thick, hairy, hangs. Her muzzle — smooth in its coolness —
does not lean into comfort. She is alone. Tired, maybe. Once, her clotted tail gestures toward the frantic bugs who lift and dive. And holding her
is wild blood and its fingers that reach over leg, over hoof, into mudwater. There was nothing in this field
sharp enough for this sort of gash. It must have been the water trough. There–the metal lip, shining, dripping.
I vomit into mud.