The Song of the First Frost
It is that perfect moment just before the sun breaks the horizon. I have come out of the house, down the back steps, into the far yard. Chieftain, my father’s dog, a half coyote half who the hell knows what kind of dog is standing by the stair, alert. He smiles, thumps his yellow tail a time or two and then falls in alongside me. I cross the quiet yard and hear my boots crunching through the grass. The world is white and glistening with the first frost of the year. Chieftain bends his head to nip at the white grass.
I cross in front of the half finished garage, past the saddle shed, around the root cellar and up and over the fence that surrounds the pen that stands just to the west of the small barn. Chieftain drops and wiggles under the fence. The two horses in the yard look at us and toss their heads and begin to move through the frost coated dirt, following us into the barn. Chieftain promptly begins to sniff along the base of the barn, searching for something.
I take the knife from my belt, snap it open, and slice the top of the bag of horse feed open. I heft the bag and pour it into the trough. The two horses, the big Morgan and the smaller pinto, lip the pellets, scattering them about, as if they are searching for specific ones. The water trough is full, the water still and black against the painted bottom. I press down on the float switch, hear the electric pump click on, and then release it. I walk out of the eastern door of the barn, Chieftain scooting out behind me.
Looking east from the small barn there is next to nothing. A hedgerow of cedar stretches out to my left in a dense line, buttressed from behind by the taller Chinese elm. Both are colored in shades of green and coated with frost. Ahead and stretching out to the right of my field of vision are the rolling plains of South Dakota. I can see the white sand of the buffalo wallow on the hillside a thousand yards to the south-east. I can see the paths and trails through the grass. I can see the cold glistening barbed wire that separates the pastures.
Chieftain stands next to me and presses against my leg, leaning into me as I stop. For all of his life he is playful dog, even in his twilight years. I reach down and pet him, running my hand through his fur, rubbing him at the base of the neck. His tail thumps against me.
The sun breaches the horizon line. Golden light slides across the plains like a wave, fast enough to watch it move. And then I hear the Song of the First Frost. A delicate popping sound, almost a whisper, as each blade of grass and each tree leaf shakes the cold grip of frost and feels, again, the warm caress of the sun. Winter is still distant. Fall is upon us, with its hot days and cool nights, with its fishing and hunting and football games. Frost sings with the promise of winter. It sings to tell us it is coming, but it does not hurry. Winter knows that it's time will come. Frost sings as winter's herald.
Two horses, a man, and a dog hear the song. Chieftain pushes his nose into the grass and blows. The heat of his breath melts the frost a second ahead of the sun, a single green spot in a small field of green and white. He smiles and looks up at me to see if I noticed.
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