Hot sun on my back, leaning over the horse trough,
scrubbing the green slim off the sides.
The edge burns my hands and arms as I look for a hold,
Finally cooling the rim with water from the pump.
The bouquet from the trough instantly painted a familiar picture
Of hot, still summer lakes,
Sitting under ancient willows,
Fishing for what ever small life would sacrifice itself to a young fisherman.
Water bugs scoot around the tall grasses ringed with green algae.
Teased by a breeze, willow fingers wrap around a daydream.
One of conquering its mighty branches, with tree houses and rope swings,
While crawdads keep stealing the bait.
The water is clean and clear and cool again.
With memories of her own, my horse pays homage to my work
By burying her face in the trough up to her eyes,
And blowing bubbles out of her nose.
(Some warm nostalgia for a cold winter day.)