Old Horses

I rode the old plow horse into the woods, imagining myself a wild Indian on a bareback pony, in search of new hunting grounds. Indians had once lived on this farmland, so my daddy had told me and although I suspected they had been closer to Navajos rather than Apaches, I preferred to think in terms of war paint and proud warriors. The old horse walked lazily and calmly through the trees, not exactly a fast moving Indian pony with feathers in his mane, but close enough for me. The trail he followed was his choice, not mine, and if struck by a whim I knew he would duck under a low hanging limb and sweep me off, but still I sat straight and defiant, a lonely brave following imaginary smoke signals and drums. Other days the horse might be a thoroughbred, rounding the last turn like the wind and headed for the finish line amid wild applause, leaving all the horses in the dust. Sometimes though, he was just an old work horse with a six year old on his back, wandering the pastures at his own pace, carrying me away from the noise of harsh reality and into a quiet, pastel sunset.

Back in the stall, I brushed him and smoothed his mane, fed him oats, and carrots and apple slices my grandmother Ruby had slipped in my overall pockets then curled up in the dusty, sweet, warm hay and read until I fell asleep. I liked thinking that he was watching over me like a great soft eyed guardian angel. I loved the pigs and chickens, adored the cows, but I trusted the old horse to keep my secrets and protect me. One day, I thought, I would ride such a horse down the road and into The Land of No Looking Back where there would be apple orchards and sugar maples and it would always be summer - we would never grow old, no one would ever find us, and we would never have to come back. The old horse listened to all this with a soft whinny of approval and a stamp of his hoof, his liquid eyes watching me with a lazy gaze. He shook his mane and switched his tail at the flies, nuzzled me for another slice of apple.

It was hard to leave the barn when the dinner bell rang, harder still to wait for the next morning and the next ride. On some nights I was so anxiously impatient that I slipped out after bedtime and made my way back to the stall to sleep in the hay. Nothing bad could happen in the company of the old horse, not in my imagination or in real life.