Iron Horse at Dawn
This morning I'm thawing out in the kitchen in my Carhartts and wool socks, eyes glued to the grumbling percolator completing its final gyrations before coffee's on, when my husband strolls in on his way out to work and asks me, grinning, "Hey, did you see the iron horse at dawn?"
He emphasizes the last four words, eyes full of expectation. He’s giving me that shifty co-conspirator look, the type that precedes a couple of good tickles in the ribs with an elbow to underscore the point.
And I have absolutely no idea what he’s talking about.
I’m standing there like a lump of coal, empty coffee cup in hand. Is this some kind of trick question? I’m wondering. My brain cells are still frozen stiff from feeding horses and chopping the ice out of the water tank this morning in 14-degree weather. (Four out of the five horses do belong to me, after all.)
Perhaps Dennis is waxing poetic at 5:30 AM because he’s trying to help me with my blog site, which he’s pretty keen on, by the way. You know, gin up a little creativity to start the day. The coffee pot is winding down as the answer comes percolating out of my mouth. "No,” I’m telling him. “Toby was standing quietly down by the gate this morning."
I’m referring to our big, black Percheron horse.
Imagine if you will, an enthusiastically hungry draft horse making his way down from the top of the pasture for breakfast each morning in the absence of any light whatsoever. (Thank you, Daylight Savings Time.) Hooves pounding clop-clop-clop, clop-clop-clop, chewing up the distance between 1,350 pounds of equine and you. Flanks heaving chugga-chugga-chugga, whoosh-whoosh-whoosh. You’re squinting in the dark hoping against hope to see the white crescent on his jet black forehead before he plows you over, and all of a sudden there he is, screeching to a halt three feet in front of you, big breath billowing out of his nostrils in big white clouds. Your very own, very happy, and very friendly mythical dragon creature right here in your own backyard. Three-year-old Toby delivers a bigger jolt every morning than any Venti Latte, Cappuchino Grande or Double Mocha whatchamacallit ever will.
Handing me the first cup of scalding hot java from the pot, Dennis looks at me, perplexed, and laughs. "No, silly," he says. "Not Toby." He pauses for emphasis, eyebrows raised. "The train."
His mischievous eyes cut to the window, way beyond the fence line towards the mesa where I’m supposed to look and get some kind of clue. He's enjoying this way too much. But this is one of the reasons I love the man the way I do.
Then it dawns on me. The old Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe . The railroad runs right behind our property. You can set the clock at my house by the freight trains and Amtraks.
This morning at the pasture gate, as I stood marveling at Toby’s unnaturally calm “good morning”, I barely noticed the freight train’s jarring the earth beneath my feet, lights crescendoing over the tops of the piñon and juniper as they always do, piercing the darkness like some primordial beast against which even the tenacious and venerable blue heeler Matilda has no power.
Oh, yeah. That iron horse at dawn!
