What’s the earth to a horse? A place to place the hoof, a cradle of grass, a prop to rest his nose while ripping grass out by the roots. And the Herd would have had no interest in eons. Seasons maybe, days maybe, the change of the wind certainly, the daylight hours on their pelts. No interest in geysers. In salt licks, maybe. Horse was a watcher, a minder of his own business, with eyes screwed in on the side of his tin-can skull, peripheral observer, yes, but what of those objects right in front of his nose? Expert in grass and wind, in the locations where rodents bored their holes, since such pits will break a forelock with one misstep. And then Horse would be left by his Herd. And then Wolf would come.

“Can’t fucking trust anyone,” Dan was saying, flaring again. “Least of all, it seems, our fucking wives and mothers.”

“I’m no mother. What do mothers have to do with it?”

“Mothers start it.”

He listed the usual local bad examples since the past is ever useful for lecturing.

Twelve million years back, we’re talking, with Horse grazing in the walnut’s shade with his clan, his wives bossing him, giving in to him or not while offspring and rivals stood off on distant hills watching for changes in the Herd and wind, for any mistake. Bear rumbling farther off, waiting for the same thing, digging a root to chew, ever hungry, ever exiled for his fearsome looks, and ever more fearsome keeping his own company. The Herd swished their tails at Bear’s scent, also to express the desire to mate, also to say hello to the morning sun on their withers, also to deter Fly, though Fly is never deterred for long, will survive all catastrophe, since he thrives on debacle and disaster: internal bleeding, contagion, volcanic eruptions. What creature doesn’t seek blood? What creature doesn’t keep flesh on with flesh? Bear eats Foal. Foal blood soaks the soil where the grass will grow deep green and thick. Mare will feast in that very place, grief forgotten when her hunger is satisfied.

“Though Ella’s fine,” he was saying. “As mothers go. To be fucking fair.”

“Fuck yeah,” Ginny said sweetly. “Be fucking fair to fucking Ella who’s fucking the fuck fine,” since she had limits too and could out-cuss Dan eight days a week and sometimes you have to kill fire with fire.