Cisco and I flew from the barn like we were beating the setting sun to its horizon. He wore new shoes that sparked on the rocks, and I told him to run for the pure joy of it, to run for the feeling in your lungs and your muscles that says you are alive. We bucked and spooked and snorted past a black bear, and galloped up a sidehill like a rocking horse possessed. I only realized I was separate from my horse when I saw my hand reach up to adjust my hat.
The alpenglow made the mountains blood red, and Needle Rock stood stiffly black against an orange sky. We gave thanks with our every gasping breath. On the way home Cisco worried his bit and I just rode, unaware of myself as an individual, just another part of the firs and the river and the rock.
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