Golden Hay February 8, 2018

Lip smacking good hay

Pulled up like spaghetti strands

Smells like gold sunshine.

Art Prescription: All else fades away as I listen to 13 horses eat evening hay. A bird twitters by, a mourning dove coos, a distant dog barks. Time stands still in the pasture with the horses and their hay.

2 thoughts on “Golden Hay February 8, 2018

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