Gentle

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Dandy is so gentle. From the saddle I spend too much time looking down. "Head up! If you look at your horse's head, he thinks he should slow down."
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But he's so pretty. So buckeye red soft. I keep trying not to look down, but I want to see his solid soft self. His cheeks are firm and warm from the sun; how he enjoys a soft scrubbing scratch on his neck, alongside his long wiry red mane. A firm rub is a way I can let him know how wonderful he is. Wonderful in his patience as I press the wrong heel for the wrong command. I'm grateful for his take off in the lope, even though I'm pulling the right rein too tight.

This time I loped gently. On Dandy. I'm starting to understand this soft, gentle gait. It doesn't have to be wildly frantic. No gasping fright. No fear of where the heck am I going at this speed.
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Dandy is a big gentle horse. I climb up a mountain, so it seems, proudly even though I barely make it into the saddle, he's so tall. I'm high enough to meet the birds half way. A blue bird, looking like a sparrow, but no, it WAS a bluebird on the fencepost watching me go by. A red-winged blackbird flies just above, nipping at the tail of a vulture. Canada geese sound off as they land, having passed my height on the diagonal to the flooded pasture next door.
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Dandy appreciates a good rubdown, while winter, itchy hair falls like fluff to the floor. The cement floor of an old dairy. Think what hooves have passed by for generations here.
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No, this afternoon it's just the big horse Dandy and me, finishing up riding and walking together to his pipe pen. Dandy waits so politely for dinner.

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