Tuesday

The horse shoer comes at nine thirty, more or less. Ten after eight, Mary is waking up, humming, clearing her throat. She is my company, my guest, but I am unsure about almost everything today. I sit on the porch in the cold, a blanket over my legs. The sky is so blue it is silvery. The service berry, currants and hawthornes are red globes in the staw grass. We all steam in the cold.

I am tangled in a bad night that won't let me go. My only salvation is my horse. And I run to her. Brush while she eats chews her hay. Put the saddle on. Give her an apple. Run out the door, open the gate, run down the flat septic field, the knobs of knap week. Run down the ravine picking my way around rocks until I finally trip but do not fall close to the driveway. I swing the gate open and turn to run back.

My horse takes me on a beautiful ride. She says she is very relaxed. We go to the pond where Beau had enough trouble yesterday to jostle my back this way and that and I finally got off. Today Kansas chews the reins out of my hands as she stretches her neck so long.

The shoer is here.