Out on the field of white they run. They run because they can, because it feels good, because their legs and lungs were built to run, because our snow is not as deep as they and we anticipated. A shallow winter. The horses revel in the low snow. They move freely, unconfined to their packed trails and shelter of the barns. The pasture is as open world boundless to movement for them as it is in summer. And if for a moment they stop and paw, they will be rewarded with the tops of tufts of last years grass.This is no place for a horse naturally; they would not survive on their own here, would have left long ago with the deer and the wiser of the elk that descended the mountain months ago. But we help as we can, with good food and open water. And they adjust. Their coats are thick and long; the curry comb does not penetrate to their skin, though is always a welcome touch as they stand with me out there in the long shadows of the afternoon sunlight, in the surprising warmth of a windless afternoon, and await their turn. They are shiny, all of them, from rolling in the snow. There is no dirt, no dust, no mud. Only snow.
For those born here, four of those out there now, playing in the vast expanse of white, it is all they know. For the others, they have been here long enough. I wonder if they can remember days before. Does the stallion recall the confinement of his little stall where he stood for years without direct contact with another horse excepting that from across a chain link fence? I watch him out there now, moving freely, nuzzling with his mares, romping with his eldest son, Tresjur, who is coming on three and already nearly a full hand taller than his sire. They play like brothers. I think of my husband and son and understand.
The horses will play because they can, because their long legs make light work of breaking through this low snow, because it feels good to move, because a part of them, somewhere deep inside, I wonder if it remembers what it may have felt like to just run wild and free across the plains, across the dessert, across the big wide open expanse. Do we forget the horses great need to move, unrestricted and unbound, even if just for a few minutes, with or without rider on back, to just fly, liberated and limitless, across a wide open expanse?
Watching them out their running free, soaring across the white hillside, veils of snow fluttering up at their heels as they race with one another, the young ones around the old mares, manes and tails waving in their currents of cold air, we remember the legend of Pegasus, and imagine from where the story was born. Our horses have wings; on horses we fly.
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