It's not in the eight-inch-deep mud, not in the sun-glinted sheddings whisked away on the wind, not in the restive bits of play that the horses manage on such clumsy terrain. They are waiting too. They want to run and buck, twist and shift in the herd, have some space to move out wide open in themselves.
Work always defines the seasons for me, so I'm used to my calendar being skewed, out of sync with the year. Even the festival's rhythm has been altered this year, however. The grounds linger in doldrums, waiting to erupt into life. There was snow in the air just the other day, ceaseless rain before and after, all greyness the rest of the while. The park waits, poised to burst.
Sitting at my desk, watching the latest feral cat pace back and forth before my open door, I was thinking of days to come, feeling jittery within, seeming placid without. I should have been working, because this draggy winter has put me behind. We're none of us thinking of the festival yet, not with hail slurring like lava across the freeway. I don't have my game face on, haven't found my preseason war footing.
But today spring returned, carried on the sound of a plane whining in the sky, its engine humming and hesitating, first closer, then far away. It's the acrobat. This is the first day he's gone up to the sky, back after the long winter. I've grown accustomed to his practice, his looping and diving over and over again high in the sky. I listen for him like the sea and hear him all summer, especially in the dog days, practicing with a discipline I can only imagine. I was surprised to hear him today. The pilot is airborne again. Spring must be here to stay.
Tonight E was tired, so I did the longe line work with Dar while she provided running commentary and tips. I loved it, because Dar and I were training together, working at a pace that was perfect for both of us. First, I put him through walk-halts. My daydreamy doofus needs fewer reminders now; I think he's gotten the hang of whoa. We moved on to walk-trot transitions. We're looking for quicker responses from Dar, wanting to keep him attentive, not wandering off to some greener pasture in his mind. I mixed things up, throwing in a surprise halt here and there and changing directions. Then I worked him in trot for several minutes, up and down the soft, shallow slope at the west end of the grass outdoor arena.
When Dar was examined by the vet before I got him, she told me "Ride this horse up and down hills and slopes at walk and trot for the first year. He needs to build muscle strength; he has very little right now." She was right. It worried me how his hind legs looked back then. From hip to hoof, they wobbled and undulated like thick noodles. His hooves seemed to roll on their outside edges. All that's gone now -- the consistent good care has built him up -- but now it's time to begin to shape and strengthen the muscle that he's recovered.
Trotting the slopes is hard work for Dar, but exactly what the doctor ordered. Leaning on the line would be an easy cheat, but he didn't do that tonight. He settled into a steady pace and I kept the line light in my hand. It was quiet and still, just the sound of Dar's hooves, one-two, one-two, thudding softly on the grass. Reverie, that's what they call it. I watched him trotting, watched him passing between me and the sunset each time around. For a second, I was guilty of daydreaming myself, struck by his beauty, imagining what it will be like to ride him. I snapped back into the moment when he lowered his head and blew out, releasing that wonderful snorting exhalation that means a horse has relaxed, feels safe, and is content in his work. Music to my ears.
We are training this young horse. Part of me can't even believe it.
Monday and Tuesday nights, I do the P.M. clean and feed at the barn. After Sunday's sexcapades between Dar and Keely, I drove out yesterday feeling overwrought and sad. I got out of the Pathfinder and just stood in the driveway, looking at Dar. There he was, dozing in solitary lockdown, oblivious to Keely mooning over him from the other side of the fence. I crushed down the smile that always rises in me when I first see him; that's how bad I felt.
But I stood there for a long time, watching him. Eventually, he saw me and came to the fence, lifting his head high over the the rail, tipping his ears toward me. "You have no idea what a good life you'd have with me," I said to him. "I need you not to be a dick. This farm is perfect, and I don't want to have to take you away from here." His ears followed my voice. Fifty yards away, Keely squealed, banging her do-me rump against the fence. Dar whiffled, impatient for me to come closer. I went to the barn instead.
Dar knew I was there. He pressed his face against the window, watching me. There was something laughable in his expression, so dog like, so hopeful. It caught me for a second, a moment quick enough to jar me out of my reactive state. I gathered the cavesson, lunge line, dressage and longe whips.
So we worked. He waited for me at the gate, walked quietly beside me to the arena, and lowered his head for the cavesson. He needs work on halting on the longe line. Circling out in front of me, he daydreams through the command. It's not that he loves to rush, just that he doesn't think about what I'm asking until I alpha-ask it. Then, startled, he looks at me. "Oh, I didn't realize you were there!" We did well. Working with him, I forgot how upset I was, forgot how worried I was.
Right. Work with the horse you have today.
