Molly
Under lush maple shade, we watch and rest our arms on the worn wood rails. Horses gallop by as others have since the Civil War.
The seductive thrill of the morning workouts--
Blue skies and lathered horses. The riders. Burly, squat. Lanky.
Muscled and perched. Men, girls, lean and strain, and tug the metal bits, grinding the horses’ jaws. They believe they guide their explosive horses. They think they train their pounding hooves.
The horses— chocking air, spitting mists of pink. Blood trickles from nostrils, eyes bulge—
They are not controlled. They are afraid.
I know because I was a rider and trainer. Once upon a time. In my early twenties, my youth.
Back then I didn't consider the chances of death, of a horse's leg snapping like a dry branch. Horse falling, rider tumbling to packed sand with a broken neck.
My gritty reality is yesterday's bullet and its near miss.
A squeeze of Peter’s hand reminds me I am lucky to be alive.
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