Sunday Sermon

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A red-streaked sky greets me on the short walk from the renovating house to the venerable barn. It’s the winter canvass, mountains in the distance, the full sky above. Quiet. Serene. Tranquil. 

Sunday chores. The horses following routines, enjoying routines, that’s key. Brisk, but no wind, that’s key. Sun shining, another key. A needed respite after the past few frigid days. Stubborn snow hangs around in jagged clumps and wind-sheered sheets, loitering. Laptop on the desk in the tack room, catching races from Pau, Lingfield, Warwick and Thurles. Muck a stall, watch a race, turn out a horse, watch a race, clean a bucket, watch a race. Allaho, a machine. Two For Gold, a battler. Sunday friends. Sunday heroes. 

I hope Lingfield is rewarded for its lucrative offerings during the inaugural Winter Millions meet. They doled out $202,500 for the Fleur De Lys Chase today. Heady purses in needy times. 

My friend the hawk has returned. Perhaps, a red-shouldered hawk, although I’m no Audubon. He comes here most mornings, huddles on the top board of the back paddock. Turns his head and inspects, a traffic cop on a quiet street. Then he flies off, glides a few feet above our frozen ring and slows to a stop on the top board of the other back field. He lands a few feet from Eagle Poise. Like old friends, they acknowledge, almost a nod, an acceptance. The life, the beat, of the farm. 

Sean is trying to write every day, for more from the Inside Rail, check out the blog’s main page.