After the Fire
The Horse
I remember when the grass was soft.
It bent under my hooves and smelled of rain and clover.
Now the ground is quiet and black, warm in places where the fire passed, cold where it stayed too long.
I did not run far enough.
Neither did they.
So I stand.
Ash clings to my coat like winter dust, and my legs feel heavy, but I lower my head anyway—to check, to count, to breathe them in. They are here. That is what matters. The fire took the fence lines, the trees, the sky’s color… but it did not take us.
Not today.
The Older Goat
The world went loud first.
Then bright.
Then gone.
When the fire passed, it left silence behind—so wide it hurt the ears. I lay down because my legs shook, and because lying close to the ground felt safer. The earth, even burned, still knows how to hold.
The horse stayed. I watched her shadow move through smoke, slow and careful, like she was afraid the world might break again if she stepped too hard.
I trust her weight.
It means the ground is still real.
The Younger Goat
I don’t remember the green clearly.
Only flashes—running, heat, a hand once, long ago.
But I know this:
When I lean against the other body beside me, the shaking stops.
When the big white one lowers her head, the air feels calmer.
The land smells strange, bitter and old, but above it there is something else—wind, maybe. Or tomorrow.
Together
We do not speak of loss.
Animals rarely do.
We speak of now.
The fire has passed through Flowerdale, north of the city humans call Melbourne, but it did not pass through us completely. We are still standing, still breathing, still counting one another in the ash.
The field is burned.
The sky is bruised.
Yet life remains—quiet, stubborn, and close together.
And for now, that is enough. 🌫️🐎🐐🐐
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| After the fire, they stayed. In a scorched field, a white horse stands guard over two goats—quiet proof that care, not fear, keeps life going. |
