In Texas along Fitzhugh Road, every time I brought the kids to school or picked them up, I drove across a low water crossing. On the south side of the creek was a small fenced area with three horses. The ground sloped, and consisted of hardscrabble: dirt and rocks like ball bearings. The space was so small, it was always overgrazed. The horses had eaten every sign of plant life. But they were healthy looking; the owners cared for them. I’d see the horses tugging hay from a mound in the center of the enclosure. But it was a small space for that many large animals, no room to play or explore. They’d stand gazing from behind the steely fencing.

My car would carry me across the creek, and right on the other side lived two horses on a piece of land covered by lush grass. The fencing was lower and more rustic—cedar post and wire. These horses got to roam several acres, dine on winecups and Indian blankets, and graze in the shade of stands of oak.

I would see this situation day after day, and never could come up with a point to the story. No wisdom. Just awareness that the horses inhabited almost the same spot on the planet yet their lives were so different. Just that this was what was.

(That was the original ending of my post--but in the writing, I shifted. Tonight, sitting so far away, I wish I'd been more imaginative. I wish I'd nudged things a bit, come up with a reason to meet the owners. Or I could have left paper notes like colorful flags along the fence: "We deserve more space, please!" "Ouch! These rocks hurt our feet!" Maybe the horses' lot would have changed, maybe not--but I would have changed. I've changed just in this writing.)