Somewhere along the way, a stranger on Instagram dubbed the place Ponyhenge, and it became a hashtag. The swap shop wasn’t an option the horse would come right back. If a horse offended our aesthetic sensibilities (I’m thinking of a bulbous pink plastic pony with a leering expression), it might be doomed to the proverbial glue factory. We threw out the broken ones and tried to find homes for the plush, antique, or wooden ones. Our primary duty by then was clear - to curate, a polite term for culling the herd. I pictured a dystopic proliferation: snapped springs, bent frames, piles of horses on their sides and backs, our good field turned to trash. For a while after that, we were inundated.
One day, the horses were featured in a front-page story with a large photo in the Globe. We arranged them in circles or rows, only to return to find the pattern changed. But then another, and another, materializing when our backs were turned or we were at work and our girls at school, sometimes even in the middle of the night. It wasn’t quite a herd yet you’d still hardly notice if you were passing by. As our neighbor Ellen, who raises (real) sheep across the street, once put it in a lovely short film about the horses, “Rockers,” “they just arrive.” A few months later, another horse appeared. Maybe we have an inkling as to who left Horse No. Was this the beginning? It’s hard to attach chronology to something that belongs to many people and thrives on mystery. Snowdrifts pooled around the horse, and spring came, and if you were driving by (forgive me if I don’t share the address), you might have noticed a horse, ears alert, springs starting to rust among the greening grass.Īnd then, one day, the gray horse had a friend.
Why not put it out to pasture? October turned to November. We cleaned up the party but left the horse in the field.
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