The moistness of your socks radiates into your boots as they flank her side. You both stand out in the hay field. In between your legs, she wanders from weed to weed. You click your tongue and slam your heels into her sides. With each fence post you pass, she gets faster and faster. You’re losing control, and she knows it. Saddleless, you sit back and hold onto her neck. As you grip her reins, she pulls you up on the hill overseeing the field where you were just standing. You lean back and sit forward. On top of the hill, you come to a halt. The wind pushes the grass in the field onto its back, leaning away from you. She sighs and picks at the field below. You were scared. You weren’t listening to each other.
She’s seen these fields and grazed on this grass before you could even fit into your boots. She knows this world—but she doesn’t know you. You rotate her by shifting your boots across her flank—you’re facing the barn and distant corn fields now. You see the rancher walking from his tractor to his truck, ready for his 3 p.m. sweet tea. You sit back, holding the reins loose and close to her neck. Let’s try this again. This time, you don’t click your tongue. You squeeze her side with your boots. You fly together down the hill. Her feet pound the sown ground and her ears are erect. She’s waiting for you.
You shift your feet and adjust your reins. She changes course. You’re heading for the tree that had fallen during last summer’s storm. Musk thistle has started to grow in between the cracks of its trunk. You lift yourself off her back and lean your chest into her mane. You’re airborne over the fallen tree. You feel a small, but immense silence. You feel it in the split second you are parallel with the ground. It is something you will find yourself longing for when you are back home.
She hits the ground running. The trees gust past you as you continue on. A few solemn, slow clouds pass through the sky above you. They are mourning the start of the end of the day. You close your eyes and feel her striding below you. The rhythm of her feet and breath felt deep in your legs. She gallops, canters, trots, and then walks to the bass pond. You mosey with her down to the pond, now just ahead of you. At the edge of the pond, she stops. Usually, she barrels in without permission. Not this time. You take off your overworn boots and tuck the shafts beneath you. You cue her with your hips. She carefully steps into the pond, her feet sinking into the mud of the pond floor. With each step, moss gathers around her legs. You’re in the water up to your shins—she’s in up to her belly.
Surrounding the pond is a hedge of blackberry bushes. The hell that is July is a little sweeter when you get the rancher’s blackberry pie, with its deep violet checkers in between lattice strips. Presentation doesn’t matter to him, and it doesn’t to you either. She throws the water around in the pond with her nose. You give her a pat on the neck. You lay across her back, the Texas sun hot across your cheeks and forehead. Cicadas whine and tick in the trees. The tips of your hair dangle in the water below, swaying with the waves. You both know you could stay here forever. Like white on rice.
The rest of the day still holds the other half of your duties. Bringing the Mustang and Arabian in, feeding Emma the alfalfa she doesn't need, and making sure Scooter has his blankie. Though these tasks are mundane, they bring you joy. You find yourself sitting in the wood chips in their stalls. You talk with them while you undo their witches’ knots. They just chew and nod their heads, like old friends you’re catching up with.
You begrudgingly drag each other out of the pond. She shakes herself off and starts walking back to the barn. On your way, you pass the combine falling apart into the field. The grass hasn’t quite reached its top—it'll be another month before you can bale it. The rancher always complains about baling season. Before walking into the stable, you put your boots back on. Dirt gives way to the concrete of the tack area. As you slide off of her, she turns to look at you. Her face is like a latte—espresso with a thin white strip of milk down the middle. She smiles at you and you smile back. You remove her bit and hang it on the hook outside the tack room. No words are exchanged, but you know she wants a bath and a sugar cube.
