Walking past the mare, I let my hand follow the shape
of her body, her hair so short it has no texture in the
height of summer. My fingers slip under her mane first,
and remembering the full moon on night she was born,
watching with the rest of the herd as her dam gave a
deep nicker encouraging the foal to push up on her feet.
Tall now, following the crest of her neck to her withers,
wide atop her broad chest. Under saddle at four, that first
trot together, feeling her back lift me in each stride. Oh, to
be carried by this mare. Tracing the arc of her barrel, those
hard days losing herd members, both of us facing down
change. A pause, my hand comes to rest at her croup, our
hips close. Hold this moment, feel the earth beneath our feet,
inhale the still afternoon air. A sharp snort, the mare shakes
her head sending a wave down her spine to my hand. Looking
over my shoulder to glimpse her looking over her shoulder.
Anna Blake for Relaxed & Forward
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