Stone Potatoes

A loud, “Darn,” followed by a string of cuss words best left unmentioned turned the air around Caleb Williams and the iron grey Clydesdale called Horsy a preverbal deep blue. Strong calloused hands tugged cracked black reins.

The old horse took one more plodding step with its large iron clad feet, sending up swirling clouds of dust, before halting its slow way down the long field.

Williams shouted, “Back, boy, and pulled hard on the sweat stained, sweat polished handles of the plough, easing the share away from the boulder blocking his way. A steel-toed boot smacked the top side of grey granite. The stone lay there, unmoving, unmoved by the harsh words cast in its direction.

Horsy turned, gave his master a dirty look, whinnied, flicked imaginary flies away with a white streaked bushy tail, whinnied twice more before turning the big head towards the far away end of the half ploughed field.


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