If I'd had time this week, I would have groomed both of my mares deeply, thoroughly and slowly, with ungloved hands. If I'd had time, I would have whiled away hours in Scout's paddock, being with her while she reconnoitered her new environment. Sometime, I would have cleaned and shined Saxony's bridle and saddle and run my fingers through her silly fat forelock.
If I'd had time, I would have spent more than 20 minutes in turnout with that new foal and her kindly first-time mom. I would have lingered in the squealy joy of seeing a newborn filly discover she can buck and run, I would have photographed her impossible attempts to mimic her mother at the water trough and hay feeder.
If I'd had time, I would not have felt the rash of passing seconds searing across my mind, my skin, irretrievable. Sometimes it really cuts me not to get to the horses when I need them. I know the days will come, but oh, did I need them now. All I could steal were the moments for this crabby bleating, which is only like looking at a picture of a picture of a picture.