“Fifty-eight inches.”

The boy grins. He’s grown since spring.

“Tell your folks I’ll have their order tomorrow.” The crumbling carpenter retracts his tape measure, its disorderly echoes interrupted by an embankment of surplus sweet, green hay. The last surviving mare’s bloated underbelly was painted by the ginger sunrise just three mornings ago. 

Now, he can build. No more digging horse graves.

“Mister?” A tiny voice begs; a rosy girl, no more than five years old tiptoes into the barn . “Mama’s sick. She sent me to get measured.”

Hers will be the smallest yet. Scrap cuts of pine will do.

Copyright Jacinda Little 2018