That Autumn in Pennsylvania Little has given me so much joy as to walk quietly into that field of horses early each Saturday, the smell of earth and animal sweet and musky, to look for the reddish freckled one called Strawberry. To approach her as I would a loved one sleeping. I’d let her notice me, run my hand along the length of her neck, speak low and sing-song of the morning’s innocence. Of her warmth. I could be tethered to this earth forever, forgetting what our bodies lose every moment to the open air. Our exhalations rising in clouds, disappearing into the fields of the sky. Here is the scent and warmth of uneven ground. And breath enough for large and small breathing bodies. Taking her reins I start walking. Her ponderous hooves lift and follow. When her head swings down for a scratch across my wool sweater, I feel...
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