Painted horse, voice of reason

in this field we are standing, grazing, trading glances between raindrops, those perfect sparkles dissolve along the line of your back, soaking your hide. you are telling me something that is difficult to put into words, steam is rising as morning sun ignites, i slow my breathing, perk up my ears, concentrate on the words you are saying and try to release the thoughts that crowd my mind, give my mane a shake and make an effort to respond intelligently without editing anything, information or feelings, saying perhaps more than you wanted to hear, perhaps less, but the intention is pure and somehow that comes across. it leaves open the possibility of taking this process further, into some distant field that offers room to run, to jump and kick up the turf, intensify communication through physical expression, invite in a witness, feed on new flowers, blades of grass, tell the sun to render a portrait of our keenly visceral contrasting experiential hooves, walking in each other's footsteps to facilitate a reasonable acceptance of this trail we are exploring.

last night's difficult sleep, the pain, the restlessness, all handled with kindness and attention to space, that space between words, between our fingers, or the length of my forearm and your back, space between the bed and the wall or the lamp and your pink water-bottle, all spaces honored and allowed to exist unhurried, letting the moments and spaces dance, low flying birds, dreams on branches, hip bones under the tree, placing the somnambulist face down in a field where 2 horses wait, gazes locked, for the sun to return.