Save your pity. It means nothing. She’s a big mare, broad chest and straight legs, her coat the color of soil that could grow rose gold, imperial topaz, and chocolate. She talks in all directions at once, not that she cares, with her ears shouting orders and her body dwarfed by her ageless spirit … Read more
She was for sale: a black bay Arabian mare and I was looking for a beginner lesson horse. Tacked up when I arrived, I led her to the mounting block, held the reins a bit too tight, poked her with my toe as I stepped into the stirrup and then dragged my leg over … Read more
We became strangers. I thought I knew her so well; that place just back from her ears where her mane flips to the other side. Her slow half-closed eye resting in speckled shade, head low to the flank of a gelding. Her outline in moonlight blue at the night feed, the horse from my … Read more
When Larry McMurtry wrote Lonesome Dove, he gave Woodrow Call’s gray mare a blunt name that was rudely respectful, in a close-as-kin way. Being a sort of gray mare myself, the name stuck in my memory. Some folks hate mares so much they refuse to have them on the place. Others praise them to the … Read more
Caramel and blond…
…she sees it all
One gray mare to another.
Less correction; more direction.
…as she turns her ear to me.
To say that all of my best teachers have been horses is a draft-horse-sized understatement.