An old horse and an old Wisconsin farm…

Somewhere along State Rd. 11

winding through sleepy towns

dotting southern Wisconsin is a

small, faded farm house

pushed up to the two-lane

and animals scattered about

the yard with a hand-painted sign

propped against the once white

fence that read, “My horse is old,

not neglected” and it could easily

read that way for the house, barn,

the tractor or even me, I suppose.

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