Driving the old pick-up slowly through the fog, Clay checked his watch – 6:29 am. It was still dark, but by the time he made it to the canyon floor the sky would begin to lighten. It would be much later before the fog burned off.
At the ancient mile marker he pulled onto the gravel shoulder, cut off the engine and waited. In a few minutes it would be light enough to walk the slippery path to the pasture.
Standing against the plank fence, he listened.
“Horses.” He whispered.
In the distance, there was a low snort – muffled by the fog.
Four ghostly shadows emerged silently from the gloom and came forward cautiously as something rustled through the bushes behind him.
In a barely audible whisper he said “Your momma’s so fat that when she goes to the movies, she sits next to everybody.”
“Your momma’s so ugly…even Ripley’s couldn’t believe it.”
Looking at the tallest horse he said “I bet you think genitalia is an Italian airline.”
To the filly he growled, “Every girl has the right to be ugly – but you abused the privilege.”
For several minutes, both sides stood motionless in the morning chill when, as if on cue, the horses simultaneously whirled around and disappeared into the gray.
Making his way back to the truck he decided, “I gotta get some new material.”