Stonehenge and the Old Horse

Stonehenge: My house.



There are dozens of intricate stacks of packed boxes. Brown like stones. Towers of boxes. It is creepy living among them. Druids will be here soon.



The Old Horse: Me. I have sorted and packed and run errands and made phone calls and done yard work and sorted and packed and carried giant bags of stuff to throw away and cleaned out my office and gotten new tires on the car and have stayed up all night for many nights in a row, packing, then sleeping from 7 a.m. to noon. I feel like a pitifully old swaybacked horse who is dragged toward the track each day, whipped by a sadistic little tight-crotched jockey as I froth and wheeze to the finish line of the daily derby. Then I am allowed to lie under a tree in the pasture, just long enough to figure out which part of me hurts the most. Today it was my left hoof.