On some mornings, you walk by the river and pray thanks to the water gods. Those who broke the dam upstream, who fill your river and pond.
And on some evenings, you find a squirrel in a bucket. You know he drowned, tried to crawl his way up the steep slopes and struggled in death.
So you dump the bucket and give the horses a new one, before you take the frozen body across the river for the vultures to eat.
We are in no drought — water is plentiful this year — so perhaps he lost his step on the tree branches above and lost his life with it.
You make your way back through the stream as your boots fill with ice cold slush and brambles pull at the seam of your weather beaten coat.
The shovel drags heavily behind you, thudding across the wet ground. You said no words for the squirrel but you say them now, captured on the page.
The new trough will likely remain untouched until morning; horses are easily trained. But the body lies on a pile of rocks atop a grave that was built many years ago.
Your boots now sit in front of a fire, tongues exposed to dry until you wear them again. You strip your winter gear and put on your boyfriends sweater. He will be here soon.
But even if he were here, you would have still taken the squirrel, for not everyone must bear witness to death so closely. That may be reserved for those of us who are accustomed to it.
There are no troughs in heaven, just rivers and ponds and rocks.