I gotta go

Riding.

Hang on. I'm trying to rekindle something that died again today.
Why, what, was this day supposed to be called? A day I can't even talk about. It's unspeakably ridiculous. My life as a bad movie, I tell ya, the tickets I could sell.

I must go.
Riding.

I'm trying out a 16 hand TB Stallion, raced until he was six, won almost a quarter million dollars. Looks a lot like his Daddy & Granddaddy, just a little rangier. He is straight as an arrow, build like a kite, ready to catch some wind and fly. His movement is elegant and fluid, easy reaching forward, fore and aft. Everything like silk banners, effortless undulation. He has enough neck, well set up high, to see the future ahead of him, looking to it for joy.

Oh, his head. Large, kind, calm eye, brimming with old knowledge of turf and wind and cheering crowds, silks and jockeys and hot-walkers and bedlam. I groom his coat to a mirror finish, and admire the depths of shimmer of a "plain dark bay" .
Oh, his eye. He looks inside, and checks my baggage, clearing me for the honour of his relaxed back.

I swing up, sink down light, like an eider puff, and feel his barrel filling out my leg surprisingly well, as he's not that tall. At least, I'm not all that short. My confidence builds with his size and his balance and his sure feet. His foot, so round and well-angled and under him. Sound as a bar of gold, this horse.

Actually sounder.

A horses' wisdom is in his feet. This horse has an encyclopedia in four volumes.

Sound sure footfalls harmonize us both, as we walk out on a loose rein. He snorts, and asks if he could do a little canter dance. I let the rocking canter build for a bit, as he rolls into his comfort zone with this strange rider, sitting lightly on his back. But my stirrups are not jockey length, and he's far too wise to ignore that. He chuckles another little snort, with every other rollicking stride, then every stride, then a long low sighing snort, as he settles down into the rhymes and reasons in his hooves.

Welcome back into trot, my mind thinking slower, his body the banner I catch with my weight and shoulders and hands. They touch the last of his canter, and trit-long-trotting we go, his stride floating easy across the ground. Quiet. We breathe our lives in unison, and look for things to do. Oh, let's! What about this? Okay! He asks to spook at a plastic bag, and instead I ask him to attack it. Fun!

to be continued.

what a day.