Since the August post, a chance meeting with a drought horse occurred. (To put this into context, read the previous post.) It was not the first time we saw each other. He walked from the shadows of my mind onto the road beside me. Real. What was different this morning was that he didn't startle or turn away. He merely stopped and looked patiently my way and then moved on, slowly. I fumbled for the camera but paused. Should I or shouldn't I? He seemed to give consent by his slow demeanor and I thought again about his plight. "Look hard at me. This is MY story," he seemed to say. He packed many questions. A chain of events had occurred which led here. My spouse tells stories of drought's effect on horses. Stories from his father. Stories from rare books. How they begin to eat the mane of other horses... What does this image have to do with writing? All stories come from places and experiences such as this.