Journaling meets short story; the horses of summer

It’s a rainy, gray Saturday morning in September and I couldn’t be more joyful. The opportunity to curl up with a steaming bergamot-laced tea in my cozy living room with some books and my iPad is so delicious, I’m practically drooling.

The horses were on exceptionally good behavior when I went out to visit, each traipsing into their respective stalls, patiently (Mac, enthusiastically greeting me with a nicker and a toss of his head) or impatiently (Happy, circling his large body around me, showing me how he can contort and bend his body however he sees fit) and Pete (standing solidly, eyes transfixed on the three buckets I was holding, knowing that as the dominant horse, he would be fed first, shrugging aside the fact that his stall was the closest one to me).

The rain had abated, much to the delight of the herd. Following breakfast, the hoofed consortium presented me with a majestic display of their cantering prowess, elegantly figure-eighting in unison, necks arched and bodies collected. Embodying jubilation.

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The night before, I had sat on the front porch after dinner, slowly rocking back and forth, one foot tucked under me, the other creating a fulcrum and movement. I watched the storm roll in, feeling the coolness of the night descend.

The horses were in the front pasture, clustered together like a rugby scrum. The night sky was illuminating them every few minutes when lightening flashed quietly.

As the veil of darkness fell over the four of us, soon only the faint glow from my Kindle was visible. The stars had pulled the cloud blanket up and rolled over to doze for the evening.

Rain pelted down suddenly, rhythmically cascading down the timpani-gutters. Just a moment earlier I had been able to make out the horse’s shadowy geometrics in the distance; they had abandoned me, as horses will, choosing the warmth and safety of the barn.

 

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