A white horse and two goats

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. 🌫️🐎🐐🐐

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.

---

Australia Wildfires

Black Saturday Bushfires: Tragedy Near Kinglake and the Fallen Horse

---

On February 9, 2009, in the aftermath of Australia’s deadliest bushfires, the cost of the disaster was written across both the land and its living creatures. Near the small community of Kinglake, northeast of Melbourne, a horse lay lifeless at the side of the road—trapped and overtaken by the raging flames that swept through the countryside. Its still body was a haunting reminder of the speed and ferocity of the fires, which left little chance for escape.

The tragedy was not confined to wildlife and livestock. As weary firefighters and rescuers worked tirelessly among the ruins, they discovered the remains of dozens of people in homes and buildings reduced to ash. By that Monday, the death toll had already risen to 130 lives lost, with communities mourning loved ones, neighbors, and the animals that had shared their lives.

The Black Saturday bushfires, as they came to be known, burned with such intensity that even seasoned firefighters described them as unlike anything they had ever faced. High winds, searing heat, and tinder-dry landscapes turned entire regions into infernos within minutes. Families fled down narrow country roads, many encountering walls of fire they could not outrun. Animals—both wild and domesticated—were caught in the chaos, their fates bound to the land they roamed.

The image of the fallen horse near Kinglake stands as part of this collective memory: a symbol not only of loss, but of the deep interconnectedness between people, animals, and the environment. It reminds us that in times of disaster, the grief is shared across all forms of life, and the resilience to rebuild must carry them all.

Artistic interpretation: Silent witness to the wildfire’s fury.

---

 

Taxidermic Horse

Maurizio Cattelan’s Novecento: The Suspended Horse and the Stillness of a Century

Exploring the meaning behind Maurizio Cattelan’s Novecento — a taxidermic horse that reflects on time, mortality, and modern history.

---

On the opening day of the 2008 Biennale of Sydney, visitors wandered into the Museum of Contemporary Art and were met by an unexpected sight.
High above them hung a horse — still, suspended from the ceiling by leather slings, its head gently lowered as if in quiet surrender.

It was Novecento (1997), a work by Italian artist Maurizio Cattelan.
For many, the encounter stirred a mix of awe and unease. The image of a horse — a creature so often associated with movement, freedom, and strength — now appeared frozen in time, weightless yet heavy with meaning.

The horse had not been taken from life for art; it had already passed, preserved through taxidermy — a medium Cattelan often used to explore the thin line between existence and absence. In Italian, “Novecento” means “1900,” a word echoing the 20th century and all its paradoxes: progress and exhaustion, glory and decline.

Suspended in midair, the horse seems caught between two worlds — no longer alive, yet not entirely gone. It becomes a symbol of an age that once raced forward with unstoppable momentum, only to find itself hanging still at its end.

There is something haunting in that stillness, yet also something peaceful — a pause, a reflection, a question.
It asks us to look beyond the surface, beyond discomfort, and into what it means for vitality to fade, for time to hold its breath.

Perhaps that is the quiet power of Novecento: it invites both empathy and contemplation, reminding us that even when movement ceases, the story does not end.
Silence, too, can speak — and sometimes it speaks of everything we cannot put into words.

Visitors at the Museum of Contemporary Art observe Novecento

---