“Find your bubbling springs,”
the instructor says, looking up
and tapping my boot sole with the tips of her fingers.
I close both eyes, inhale--
My impatient pony two-steps, snorts loudly.
An image comes to mind, and is acted upon
Raudi clambers down the bank, into Moose Creek
Water roils, churns, turns itself inside out.
I yelp, for there is that God awful roar
and the knowledge that there is now no turning back
Movement catches the eye
Salmon, blood red, surface, maintain position in a holding pattern.
They will soon make the final push upstream,
spawn, die, and float back downstream.
The far shore wavers.
Cold fingers grasp damp reins. Wet legs clasp round sides.
I focus on distant spruce trees, and like them
grow down into the water, and up into the clouds.
My mare surges forward, plunges up the rocky embankment.
“Have you found your bubbling springs?” the instructor asks.
I open both eyes, exhale—
My patient pony stands quietly, snorts softly.
Next: 25. 1/23/16: Herding Crickets, Again