To feel the red soil, fine dust to pea gravel, with
each toe through the sole of my shoe. To feel held
by the earth, rooted and dear. Soften one knee
with deliberate balance, shift weight gradually to
the other foot and then sway back, to feel the hip
roll follow the first to a figure of eight, as subtle
and sweet as the crisp breeze that seeps past my
lips, cools the throat and settles belly deep, asking
my ribs to make room. When the air gains body
temperature it rises back up, melting shoulder blades
down, releasing my neck tall before passing my
tongue, a sauntering gush of heat. A circle complete,
like the ocean’s tide under the moon, breath rises
and crashes again, spent to the air. He wills it, one
fetlock softens to weight the other, and a hoof lifts,
red dust hangs timeless, as he’s drawn to the warmth.
Anna Blake at Infinity Farm
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