I do not know the name of this place.
I only know the dust.
It coats my hooves, settles into the creases around my eyes, clings to my breath. Every step presses the earth flat, as if I am smoothing a scar that never heals. The ground remembers too much.
The man holding my lead smells like sweat, metal, and something sharp—fear, maybe, or tiredness sharpened by too many mornings like this one. His hand is firm but not cruel. I notice that. I always do. I have learned the difference between being guided and being dragged.
I walk because I am walking.
That has always been enough reason.
The air vibrates with sounds I do not understand but recognize: distant cracks, low rumbles, voices held tight. Birds do not sing here. Even flies seem cautious. My ears turn without my asking them to, catching echoes that make my skin twitch.
 |
| Between dust and silence, even the smallest steps carry the weight of unseen tension. |
The men move carefully, like cats that have forgotten how to rest. Their boots fall heavy but controlled. They scan, point, whisper. Their eyes jump from doorways to windows to shadows that look like nothing but might be something. Humans are very good at fearing what they cannot see.
I am not afraid in the same way.
I am alert. There is a difference.
Fear is when the mind runs ahead of the body.
Alertness is when the body listens.
I listen to the pull of the rope, the rhythm of breathing behind me, the faint tremor in the hand that guides me forward. I feel the tension ripple through the rope like a held breath. I respond by slowing just a little, grounding myself more firmly. Sometimes, without knowing why, they trust me when I do this.
They think I am stubborn.
I am careful.
We pass broken walls and quiet homes. Doors stare back at us, open-mouthed and uncertain. Somewhere, something once grew here—maybe figs, maybe laughter. I can still smell old cooking smoke tangled with dust. Memory lingers even when people leave.
The man leading me glances down at me. His eyes soften for half a second. I sense he did not expect comfort from an animal like me. Humans often overlook us until they need us.
I have carried water, sacks, firewood, silence.
Now I carry their unease.
I am not trained for war.
I am trained for endurance.
There is a moment when everything stops. The rope tightens. The men freeze. Even the wind seems to pause. I lift my head and plant my feet. My body knows before my mind does—something ahead feels wrong, too still, like a snake pretending to be a branch.
We wait.
Nothing happens. Or perhaps something does happen, but quietly decides against revealing itself. The men exhale. Shoulders lower. One of them lets out a short laugh that sounds like it hurts.
We move again.
I do not know what an Alpha Company is. I do not know numbers or regiments or dates. I only know that these humans have been walking like this for too long, in too many places, carrying weight that cannot be set down easily.
When this day ends, they will talk about recovery, about years and plans and drawdowns. I will be untied, given water, maybe a pat on the neck. Then another day will come.
That is how the world works.
I am a donkey.
I walk where I am led.
I notice what others rush past.
I survive by paying attention.
And for this brief stretch of dust and silence, that seems to be enough—for them, and for me.
Reflection
Like countless animals before it, the donkey walks through a human conflict it cannot name, guided by instinct, surrounded by uncertainty.
