Twenty horses brought inside, blankets changed. I slip my pocketknife under the twine of the hay bales, breaking open more to give extra hay tonight. My feet are two blocks of frozen ice. I can’t feel anything. My pants, wet and muddy from the knees down, sag at my waist and slap against my calves when I walk. The sky is dirty gray and hangs down so low it’s like being under a dark tent. A few flakes swirl through the air, but nothing big yet.
The regular workers have gone home to beat the storm.
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