Winter Run by Robert Ashcom Page A

the field, headed for the Corn House. Charles had one hand on the reins and the other on the top of his head holding down his hat as if in wind. But there was no wind. Just a late October afternoon with the leaves in full color and the air mild and dry.
    “Hurry, Matthew!” Charlie said. “We need to be at home just as soon as he gets there.”
    “There ain’t no hurry. It’ll take him an hour and even my old truck can make it in ten minutes. No hurry.”
    They stood next to the white fence. Matthew leaned on the top board, his black hands resting lightly on the whitewashed oak. Charlie watched through the second board as the little mare and his father disappeared over the hill.
    A young red-tailed hawk came across the woods from the steep hill behind them, lightly riding the air. He was young enough that his body was still white with dark spots. He whistled his harsh “keeeeer” and for a second halted his journey and looked down.
    “Look, Matthew, he’s hunting. How can he do that? I mean just stop in midair like that.”
    Before Matthew could answer, the hawk dove like a rock, falling into a clump of broom sage. He pausedand spread his wings. His red tail feathers were the color of the clay soil. When he rose up into the air again, he was clutching a vole with one foot. Then he was gone, over the hill and gone.
    Hawks were coming back now that the number of people keeping chickens steadily declined. They were no longer shot on sight. Charlie took them for granted, while Matthew was always surprised to see one after the long years when there had been none. Gradually they were becoming part of the backdrop of our lives, the sound of their cry part of the rhythm of our world.
    “How did he know where the vole was?” Charlie asked. “He just stopped all that way off the ground and then dove. How did he know, Matthew?”
    “I don’t know, Charlie. I just don’t know. When I growed up, they’d been shot out to where you never saw one. I never had a chance to watch when I was little. Maybe if there had of been a lot of them to look at, I might have seen how they did it. Maybe you can figure it out what with there being plenty to watch.” And then he said abruptly, “Let’s go. Time to be home and get ready for that pony.” Charlie’s mind turned away from the hawk’s eyesight and came back to the pony.
    “Yes, let’s hurry. Come on!” and headed for the truck.
    Everyone was lined up in the lane in front of the Corn House, when Mr. Lewis came over the hill at Silver Hill and started down the lane to home. Firstthere was Gretchen, looking slightly apprehensive but happy that Charlie would have a horse of his own. She thought of the pony as a horse because she had never been around them growing up, so a horse was a horse no matter what the size. Matthew and Charlie completed the human delegation, with Matthew standing between Charlie and his mother. Next was Bat the one-eyed mare mule, Charlie’s friend despite the fact that an eight-year-old boy seldom if ever had a mule for a friend—at least as far as any of us knew. And finally Brown, an amiable, longhaired mongrel dog of that color who belonged to a family in the village but spent most of his time on the road scavenging. One of his ears stood straight up and the other flopped over, as if he could understand questions and answers at the same time. He had a regular route and today was his day to be at the Corn House.
    As Mr. Lewis came down the hill, obviously in some discomfort from the long, unaccustomed ride, Bat cocked her head, flopped her ears forward, and produced an appropriate bellow of welcome that frightened the pony, who whirled around, nearly leaving Charlie’s daddy behind, and started back the way she had come. It only took a couple of strides for Mr. Lewis to regain control, but it was typical. Over time, the pony was to gain some local fame for independence, and almost unloading Mr. Lewis before he had even got her home was her first