My dingle bobs jingle in time with the mare’s giddy splash splash splash in the freezing water. She is just like her father, Caprichoso. The few times I’ve ridden the stallion—who looks exactly like Pegasus here on earth—he’s drenched me from head to toe with all of his cavorting. I am dotted with mud like a spotted river trout, and wipe a gritty dollop from my face. But I let the Andalusian enjoy herself anyway.

The wind scoops up the newly fallen cottonwood leaves and hurls them across the sandy creek bed like dice. “It's not the wind, it's La Llorona,” parents say. In these parts, the legend of the weeping woman is still used to scare children into behaving, but I don't think I'll be telling the story to my kids. The young mother died of grief at the water’s edge because of her husband’s cheating ways (and other things). She still wanders the riverbanks, arroyos, and creeks, crying for her children. The locals claim she’s the reason so many people drown in the rivers and irrigation ditches.

I pick up my reins, and Caprichosa swings into a trot. The Rio Grande is just in sight, sluicing brown water where my clear creek ends. This is the first weekend that J. and C. are with their dad. The first time my children are away from me. They are barely two and three. The first time I fully understand that husbands who hit their wives still get joint custody after the fact.

And the facts are as ugly as the old refrigerator half-buried in the creek bottom. Caprichosa rolls her eyes and snorts at the rusty Frigidaire, convinced it is a monster. Today, the usually brave horse sees demons everywhere. The piles of worn-out tires beneath the El Rancho bridge. The discarded steer carcass we passed a half a mile back. This type of trash is ubiquitous to Northern New Mexico. The doctor’s report from the emergency room. The head injury my soon-to-be-ex gave me when he smashed me up against the kitchen cabinets because I forgot to pay his cell phone bill. Several extended family members and other do-gooders try to tell me that you just have to squint your eyes and look beyond it. Which is exactly what they do at Family Court.

Grief hunkers down inside of me, and I’m afraid it’s here for a good long stay—impenetrable as Black Mesa towering to the north of us. In 1696, San Ildefonso Pueblo Indians took refuge on the mountain from Diego de Vargas and his soldiers. The Spaniards laid siege from the bottom of the mesa for days before the natives surrendered. The mountain is sacred to the Pueblo people, and they forbid anybody to climb it. I’ve only seen it from a distance, but it seems closer today.

I’m nearly unseated as Caprichosa plows her hooves into the sand, haunches stacking up beneath her, and freezes. “What are you doing, Cap?” I ask, urging her forward. But the big mare ignores me. Holding her ground, she cocks her head sideways and looks up. Sunlight catches a white-lashed eye.

I follow her gaze to see something that doesn't belong at this altitude, among us mere mortals. The eagle is poised in the sky right above us. The first one I’ve ever seen. Caprichosa too, I think. The October wind whispers through the vanes of his flight feathers. I feel the mare’s breath quicken beneath me, her heart beat. The raptor’s shadow drapes across us, his wings embracing a rush of air, powerful talons tucked up against his body. The horse quivers as I clasp the saddle horn for a moment to steady myself. The bells from the San Ildefonso pueblo church have begun to ring across the valley, reverberating up the creek bed, and I remember that it’s Sunday.

For a moment—as the eagle hangs suspended from that broad wingspan in the thin, high-desert air—I can see what he can see. His gaze extends past brooding Black Mesa to the Rocky Mountains and beyond. Farther than I’ve imagined or dared to dream.

A whole different geography.

The eagle tips a wing and swoops northward, devouring bites of air with each whoosh whoosh whoosh of his wings, heading back to the high places, and I think I know what he’s trying to tell me. I wish La Llorona could see him too.

Caprichosa and I canter the rest of the way to the Rio Grande.

Flickr photo credit: Burningbird ; Jimall ; Byrdiegyrl ; Xinmincat