Blue Roan Morning

Icicles cling to her dark muzzle, a frozen water trail left behind from the heated water bucket hanging inside her stall. Black lashes are frosty white, wintery mascara on my blue roan mare. The wind is fierce, burning my cheeks in the spaces not covered by pulled down hat and muffler; but, the sun is bright and the sky is a brilliant cornflower blue, dotted by fat white clouds high overhead. This is what draws my mare outside, away from the protected comfort of stall and shavings.

I shove the wheelbarrow out into the deep snow covered pasture, and she walks calmly behind me. As I dump the contents, kicking the frozen layer clinging to the yellow bottom of the deep container, she watches me for a moment before leaping over an invisible barricade into winter. Her blue-black starkness draws my eye, and I allow myself the simple pleasure of watching my horse as she gallivants in the snow. It amazes me, the ground she covers in a single long gaited leap; how her thousand pounds becomes a lithe ballerina, twisting and playing in the cold.

As suddenly as it started, her movements halt, and she is a statue against the background of sky and clouds. Head raised, Mesa watches across the barren fields behind her home. One loud snort shakes the air, icicles quivering from her nose and chin. Satisfied, she drops her head, tossing her thick black mane from side to side, before looking over at me, where I still stand, quietly enjoying the magic from beside the empty yellow wheelbarrow.

The bitter wind reminds me of its silent power, and I make my way back inside to finish my jobs as Mesa munches hay from the outside feeder, quiet and content, having shown her dominance over the elements.