Their nostrils wide and sucking wind, their hides wet from the splash of their hooves in a boggy meadow.
A hollow rhythm beat itself into the ground mumbling a low and homey tune.
We'd look over at each other with broke horses between our knees, aware but somehow still ignorant to how nice they really were and we kept moving.
Voices would ring up with giggles following like echos behind every word and grins plastered on our faces, sore cheeks.
Our shoulders ached and we were just two dark haired girls that liked to rope together.
Hoofbeats hung in the wind with the sound of crickets rolling.
I guess we were all blind to the danger we danced around. Maybe that's why we love it so much.
It's ever changing and constantly new.
A craving, an addiction, just like coffee before sunrise burning you up inside, probably killing you but it was good.
Calves bellowed, our eyes were bright shadowed by inky, black clouds.
I loved it.
I finally found home.
And it was such a joke for me to think that home was something with walls and floors, windows and doors.
Because it wasn't, not for me.
My home always had four legs and sweaty hides, heavy breathes and dark, honest eyes.
It was the touch, the feel, the distinctly different way of existing, it was all about energy, it was all about the horses.
I always felt it but never paid enough attention.
My heart never ached unbearably there and my problems always seemed more open and clear.
I was forced to be honest with myself, no jokes, no games, no avoiding the truth.
I learned to feel safe in momentary danger and I learned to love adrenaline coursing through me.
I felt greater reward, greater pain, more strength, much more weakness, more give back, less take.
The injuries have always been minuscule and I'm blessed for that.
And it wasn't easy, it still isn't and it's not all past tense either, it must just sound better that way.
I found home young and I'm so damn blessed for that.