Warm bed evacuated in an "I'm going to be late" attitude.
Dragging a clutzy self to the coffee pot only semiconscious then back to cold jeans.
Late. Late. Going to be late.
Jump into jeans.
Land, digging a spur rowel into a bare heel.
Let out a screech of a not so ladylike term followed by the thud of boots being hucked across the bedroom.
Shirt loosely flapping its tail.
Pants hanging partly over boot tops leaving some white skin to light the morning darkness.
Halter. Where's the halter.
*Trip* "Wow...did not see that rock"
"Whoa bud. Don't run. We gotta get goin."
Mud. Mud caked. Caked all over a once golden hide.
Dust powdering my lips as a curry comb claws at chunks of plastered, muddy hair.
Soft thump as my saddle sets into place.
Clanking buckles as the cinches drop.
Tight enough. Loose enough.
Latigo slaps in its hanger.
Breast collar. Too long. Too short. Adjusting. Clock still running.
Hackamore hooked in an elbow.
Lead rope thrown over a shoulder.
Hands. Full. Tingling. Rough. Ungirly except three oval slivers of silver stacked upon each other.
*Toom. Toom. Toom-toom.* The drumbeat of hooves on a trailer floor.
Shivering lips whisper "I love you."
Truck door creaks to a close, engine fires up. And the day. Starts.