Over Christmas break, lightning killed my uncle's horse. I sensed something missing when I came back in January. It was the horse, though I didn't find out for a few weeks. Dad said there was a loud bolt and a flash, and the next day they found the horse dead in the barn. In the corner of the pasture, there was a dirt mound where they buried her.
In August, the pasture is covered with little yellow daisies. Butterflies, wasps, and bees hover about. The grass reaches my knees. Unmowed and ungrazed, it grows wild.
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