I overheard some riders complaining like old campaigners. Asking a horse for bend sounded like the Hundred Years‘ War. They weren’t mean, just grumbling that it was hard to make the horse do what they wanted. Their voices heavy with dread, I had a feeling that their horses probably weren’t wild about them either.
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 … Read more