Our horses are not young, neither are we.
We negotiate with winter, bartering against
the wind that our horses might have shelter,
might have this small farm to hold them.
We’re hostage to them, more than they are
to us. We make ourselves useful, driving to
town to take jobs caring for others to pay
for the privilege of coming home to care
for our horses, hay through the long night.
On a Sunday in April, front entry locked,
we share a ritual. Leave the dry lot gate
unlatched as we walk to a hidden spot. One
gelding moves to investigate the usual clang
that was not heard, his nose nudges to test
and the gate swings wide. He hurries through,
his neck stretched pulling to the lawn, and the
other horses follow, to special grass so sweet
and thick that the gelding drops down to let his
body feel, grazing as he rests his legs, knowing
we watch. As free as either of us wants to be.
Anna Blake for Relaxed & Forward
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