it fits in your hand.
October 17, 2011
an old post I found from February 10th that I never blogged.
Two-hour delay this morning. I wanted the extra time to sleep, but find that now that I have it, sleep is the furthest thing from my mind. I thought about the tendons and muscles in my hands and I held them up to the dim light coming in through the window. What a piece of work, how intricate, how fearfully and thoughtfully made.
I thought about the summer. Gliding through the inlet in my kayak. Tall grass and plants, undergrowth all around me, the inlet widens and I float underneath a fallen tree and into the wide, blue expanse of lake, the sun beating down. I close my eyes, put my feet out on top of the kayak and feel the warm sun, just floating, the rocking motion of the water puts me to sleep.
I thought about riding. The smell of the earth, the sky, and horse. It’s dirt, fresh cut grass, hay, leather, and the bitter, faint taste of fly spray. The sun warms you and you feel the movement and just ride, carried away by powerful strides and the slightest touch, the lightest pressure of your leg, the horse listens and responds, ears twitch back, listening.
Main street, the park, fourth of July, Flicka, her soft looks and warm eyes. Walking up to the cemetery and laying in the grass under the tree, escaping the heat of July. Those big bales of hay that you can lay on top of and get lost in the sky, the blue, true, dream of sky. Sitting on the front stoop, Flicka next to me, waiting for Mother and Dad to get home, the stone steps warmed by the sun, the aviary of birds around me, the little garter snakes, lazily sunning themselves on the sidewalk and Dad’s flowers, tall and brilliant, line the sidewalk, singing up to the sun.
