Morning in a Wyoming Meadow
One morning you are walking down a dusty little path in the pine forest of Wyoming. On your right is an old pine tree. You once watched a porcupine snooze in its branches. You pass through a wire gate into a grassy meadow. You're excited - looking for something. On your left rests a blue lake with hills at its back. You once watched a baby duck meander among its lily pads. You see them far away, twenty six horses in colors: bay, grey, pinto, buckskin. They're grazing until they sense your presence. Heads lift. Nostrils flare. They sniff the air in gusts. After a frozen pause they set off running. Towards you. Tons of horse flesh flying your way. You hold your ground ignoring the voice in your head that says you're about to be trampled. They halt within a few feet and approach, testing your scent. One nickers. One nuzzles your pocket for a treat. Others circle trying to sort you out. Their eyes are gentle. Their noses are velvet and they have decided to trust you completely.
