Another string of moments with Boone, who smiles from all angles.
Boone and I rode up to the cemetery, about 2 miles, and back. What a wonderful ride, no cars, just the hum of some hayers, birds, leaves, grasses. Boone has a habit of stopping about every twenty minutes, just to stand, look, wait for my go forward command. When I first got him, I worked it out of him pretty well. But now, I allow him to do it, because I look at it more as a gift to sit still, on my horse, take it all in. As long as he's not snatching grass, I'm OK with it. Our rides are soft, not hard, we trot occasionally - such a lovely sound, trotting. It holds within it's rhythm so many embedded sensations from childhood journeys to my Uncle's farm, or autumn rides in Minnesota on neighbor horses.
In my new book I talk about capturing the essence for a painting, either by jotting down a note or crude sketch to take back to the studio as a memory jogger. Not details, just the essence. Today I thought about what words I could store in my memory of my ride- hoping I might remember them back at my studio, for a poem, or 150 word prose piece. In my head, it went something like:
Grasses over ripe with seed blow up and out through bramble full of light pink florets soon to turn blackberry. The dust has not arrived, leaving the roadside daises virginal white, but strong in their independence from other fauna. Straight above, a black bird soars against an equally virginal cloud, for what has touched it? It's black wings then merge into blue.
