Memories of the rider I was decades ago, galloping bareback, seat balanced in the bliss of ignorance. Thirty years later, there's a war between my mind's love of flying and my body's memory of falling. I just want to ride again without fear.
Friday, October 8, 2010
Those Zany Horses
You just never know with those guys. Last week I did a lot of picking in the lots. It's work I never mind doing. I liken it to cleaning cat boxes, only easier. For one thing, I don't have to bend over my fat pud to sift up the poop. For another, I don't have to chisel hardened clumps of pee free from poorly designed corners.
Still, it is work, so I can't avoid indulging in a small sense of satisfaction when I tip the last muck bucket into the dumpster. Yes, the paddocks look pristine, don't they, I say, praising myself smugly.
I suspect the horses agreed. Look at the formation poopwork they left for me to admire the next day; behold its fearful symmetry. I don't have to believe that they colluded, dupah to dupah, but I want to.