Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Cross legged and laughing.

I traced my fingers around the edge of my saddle horn and the flowers on the fork. I clenched my swollen hand into a fist and watched my blood near the surface where fresh rope burns loomed. My raspy voice answered him when he asked if I was alright. I looked up, blinked the dirt out of my eyes and rode in to heel another calf. Horse sweat dampened my fingers and blood coated the backside of my hands. I took heavy breathes and wished I had more coffee. I tugged and pulled trying to brush through my snarled and once braided hair. My boots were torn and dusty, ready with memories. Through gritted teeth I threw heel traps and then grinned at all the cowboys that never fail to give me hell. We all sat cross legged at the end of the day in the dirt and laughed till we were red, pointing fingers with jokes on the tips of our tongues. Our horses stood cock-hipped, their energy burned out even more so than our own. We were all so giddy and we felt like the world was right as the sun set in the reflection of our eyes.
Still, when tears were at the corners of my eyes, sore muscles aching beneath my skin and my legs not giving my horses the right message, I was always where I wanted to be. I was scared and I thought I was failing, but I was okay. Good morning and goodnight beneath a full moon, rolling out of bed at 3 a.m. and catching horses with shivering fingers in coats too big for you. I love the little, pretty, dusty memories and the feel of good horses between my knees.


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