But we rarely have time to dance at night. Often, Lena is still doing chores at midnight. I worry about her. If I could speak human, I would have a few choice words for Herbert Quagmire. Then one evening after Lena and I have plowed our section, she returns me to the barn, bids me good-bye, and heads in for her domestic chores. No sooner has Lena left than Rollo appears. “Out!” he shouts, yanking at my halter. “You’ve got work to do.” He drags me back to the field and puts the harness back on. “Tonight you’re pulling my plow and the tractor.” At first, I think Rollo must be joking. But I should know better. And sure enough, he hitches me to the tractor that’s hitched to the plow. Then he climbs onto the seat, puts his feet up, and opens his comic book. Rollo cracks his whip. I lean into the harness. It slips up to my neck because it’s too loose, and I’m already foamy with sweat from plowing all day. The straps around my stomach are too tight, so I can’t get enough air into my lungs.
What do You think about Dreams Of A Dancing Horse?
