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Borrowing Wings

Written by Arian Mabe (Amethyst Mare)

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Oh, honey, I can’t deny how you make me feel. Breathe in, breathe out, hoof beats keeping rhythm on the harrowed sand beneath your hooves. I could be something more than human, on your back – a centaur, a creature of myth and legend, hardly held in place on earth’s fair surface by the laughable play of mere gravity. The arena contains us, as horse and rider, but we are not to be held in by wooden boards and fence posts, our spectators dim in the distance as nothing exists but us.

Stomach in and chest up: the better I ride, the better you go, trying your heart out for me as your stride eats up the ground. Length after length disappears beneath us as you settle into your canter stride, softening and rounding happily to work over your back and hindquarters. I never knew, before my grey, gorgeous gelding, that a horse could be so light in the mouth and you remind me of the feel, the touch on the reins.

A crop rests in my left hand, but it’s not there for more than a tickle and a tap on the shoulder, purely to help you stay straight and work that stiff side. Ah, I cannot say you are as supple as when I first rode you, but you try so hard and it’s not your fault. Every horse has a stiff side, a weaker side, but even your side that needs re-strengthening feels like I’m floating on air, hips and pelvis shifting with the drive of your back.

Above us, the trees rustle, branches extending out over a fragment of the school, but you pay them no mind, your stride steady and sure. Where are we going? You seem to say, caught up in the lines between work and play. For working hard sours you and you sulked at the back of the stable when we tacked up before – but not that day. And you still trot responsive and you listen with a flick of that soft, grey ear, taking my aids and turning them into something beautiful, equine poetry in motion.

A voice in my ear directs us to go and we cross the diagonal line with fluidity and grace, you reaching eagerly into the contact. I can feel that softness, what I’m always craving, but your strength and power is an easy substitute to allow to allow you to work and let me learn. We’re not lacking impulsion as we pick up the opposite canter lead and we fly down the long side of the school, sunshine dappling beneath your hooves.

Confidence and peace are the gifts you give me, so freely delivered that it’s a wonder that I’d dare to call them gifts at all. Hacking is a breeze and you turn down the lane, ears pricked and eyes bright, checking what’s new and what’s changed. It’s not all cause for concern – well, you are a flight animal – and your marching stride reminds me, with each step, just why I ride. That moment of calm, all well with the world in a daydream that shivers back to a sweeter reality.

Hooves on tarmac, a gentle rhythm, rocking in time to the sway of your back. Your belly is round, bumping my boots, but there’s no need for pressure when you’re already so forward. And yet safety is in your stride, a touch on the neck being all I need to bring you back to me if I worry you’re getting just a step ahead. You don’t race off, throw your head and say you know best, but consider who’s on your back and adjust your way of going to do the rest. Don’t get me wrong – your spirit is there, but you’re shy to show your personality, affecting the stand-offish until you think it’s right to let a human in closer.

How funny you were, when I sponged you off! Head up in the air, a glare and a snort. I didn’t think you’d be so fussy over having your bridle path cleaned, but you didn’t like it and told me as much very clearly. There was even a film of that dance – very one-sided – but I was so embarrassed that I asked it was deleted. I’ve learned since then and, when it comes to water and bathing, I think we have something of an agreement now. Maybe. I’m sure you could throw me for a loop again if you so chose. That silly incident seems a long while back now.

And I remember how you were that first time – me so nervous on your back because you were a classier horse than what I was used to. You looked after me, polite within a pace even when we were galloping off up the hill with tails and manes flying. I suppose that’s the theme of it; you love your fun and yet you’re a kind soul at heart. Snorting and puffing, we climbed to the top, popping a jump and racing onward. Although reminiscing is a joy, I wished, back then, that you were mine. I missed my chance when our dappled boy came to live with us, seeing you “maybe” for sale a month later. I guess I wonder now if the fates have smiled and given me that one chance back again.

If I may borrow your wings, I’ll give you a home, but it remains to be seen whether another will feel as light and in tune on your back as I do. And, oh, how I worry that this will not come to be, even if I’ll always remember everything you’ve done for me. You’ve given me back my drive and my fun and I hope I gave you a little fuss and relaxation in turn, even if there’s really no real way to cover all the ways I could possibly stand up and say “thank you”.

Well, perhaps a carrot or two would do.

I’ll stock up, just for you. Carrots in exchange for borrowing wings seems hardly a fair trade, but I warrant it’s one you’ll accept at any time of day.

So what remains to be said?