Her fingers wrap around the cold metal pipes that run
parallel through the gate, the pitted
and scruffed surface
making her hand waver as she seeks for the
right grip to pull on the shaft that runs across
just at her chest level, and
she pulls as she breathes in deep, taking in the scent
of dust, sweat, dry grass and dung
that pulls the morning
down into her soul just as the thick hinges
move, their strength able to hold the gate’s
weight but not its length
sending into the air a savage shriek that moves
the head of the horse her way,
and causes her own head to fall back, listening as
the sound soars both up and out at once, traveling
through windows and walls, eyes
opening to the warning
of the deep dark dangers of the wild, and she pulls
again, the lower edge scraping ground
as she steps around the end, and moves
towards the gleaming dark of the animal’s hide,
her hand reaching out to touch while she watches
the creature’s eyes as they watch
her and something in the way the large muscles of
those dark shoulders move, shifting
towards quiet
moves her, and her pace changes, not
swifter, not slower, but softer now, the pace of friendship,
hand open, waiting to touch.
Click here to read Judith Mikesch-McKenzie on the origin of the poem.
Image: photo by Dmitry Mashkin on Unsplash, licensed under CC 2.0.
Judith Mikesch-McKenzie:
Through my pre-teen years, two friends and I occasionally went horseback riding. We’d start out at a ranch owned by one friend’s father, saddle up and head out into back country by following the river that came through our valley. That river was our map – lose the river, lose the way home, though sometimes we did dare to explore over a hill or into a stand or woods. Mostly, we just went farther and farther into the wild. Normally, those days were almost silent – few times of teen-talk, or giggling, or teasing each other. Just the horses and us, and the undeveloped wild country we headed into. I never owned a horse, but over and over in my life, was fortunate to have friends who’d go riding with me, who’d pace or gallop along beside me, quiet, enjoying the world in the same way the three of us had. Recently, an 80-year-old friend went riding on her birthday after years away from riding, and I wrote a poem for her. In the process of doing that, I tried to remember if I’d had any fear in my initial encounters with creatures so much larger than I was, and, in trying to remember, this image came to me of a lone person, leaving others behind to venture into the quiet world, and walk toward what was once feared.
Judith Mikesch-McKenzie has traveled much of the world, but her soul is always drawn to the mountains. A teacher, writer, actor, and producer, she lives in Oregon with family and two cats. She is a wee bit of an Irish curmudgeon, but her friends seem to like that about her.
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