Mike

We ride over the ridge. Reins held by hands blistered from digging at frozen earth, dried blood under our nails. We weave around headstones, avoid gopher holes, pause at the fence line. The horses nod, eager to keep moving. By dark we’re seated in her kitchen. Hot coffee and Irish whiskey. Listen as December winds whistle across Nebraska fields. Come morning we’ll head back out, make sure the job is finished.