His eyes are like mystical legends:
What stories they could tell.

Strands of silk is his flowing mane;
It rises and falls like waves.

Graceful is his body, and yet strong;
Majestically does he walk.

His streaming tail is like a flag;
Proudly he carries it.

Like flint upon steel are his hooves:
When he runs, fire flashes.

Powerful is his wild trumpet call;
His neigh, a thunderclap.

He travels on the wings of the wind;
The pace he chooses is swift.

As the sun peeked over the hills, sending out its first glimmers of light over the frozen, sleeping valley, it showed a glimpse of a man, and a girl, their breath showing in the icy cold, leading two horses toward a trailer. “Whoa, Rocky,” The girl admonished, tugging gently on the lead rope. “Whoa boy.” The other horse, a dark, dark shade of bay, nearly black, turned in nervous circles around the man. “Steady, Lexy, good girl.” He laid calming hand on her neck. “She’s skittish this morning” the girl said.

Pounding the earth of passing plains
Swiftly he paced, and glimmered in gray
Lifted his neck, and neighed gay
Ran faster from fear above, the ringwraith

Away to the White Towers in proud, strong Gondor
To safe refuge he paced with burdens of two
Pausing and lifting his head to the moon new
He called of rank, and summoned his followers

Stretching his legs, he eagerly raced
He leapt over creeks, and followed the cliffs
Firing red of beacons that are lit
Call to arms! Rohirrim to our aid!

This barn is twenty-five years old and for three years I have been pretending it belongs to me. This barn is where I spend sixty hours of every week, the place to which I devote all of my time and energy in exchange for the shelter of my beloved horses. This barn holds twelve horses and half of them have left hoofprints in my heart.

1.
It is a cool, lazy Thursday afternoon and I am cleaning stalls while waiting for my three o’clock lesson to arrive. On one of my many journeys to and from the shavings shed, I pause a while outside the back pasture. Sitting on my comfortable log, wiping my brow, I watch the horses interact as they jostle for the last of the winter hay.

I am fifteen. I am standing in the arena at Spice Creek Stables while five riders circle me, as Bill Richey’s apprentice. I am uncomfortable, and ashamed that I feel this way when everyone keeps telling me what a great opportunity this is. I want to be an instructor, I want a job with horses, but now I am unhappy and I don’t even know why.