After the storm
After the storm, steam rises up from the mounds of porcelain hailstones melting against the earth, like spirits too long inhumed. Long white fingers strain towards the sky, beseeching. They caress your face, your hands, your bare arms, until the fine hairs are standing on end as you slog down to the barn on what had only moments ago been a searing summer day. You shiver, suddenly clasped too close for comfort by the frigid air, like an unwelcome advance from a stranger. Manage to wriggle into your husband’s old blue flannel shirt as you reach the gate.
You think of riding that last few miles back to camp in the wake of a hailstorm with your family, five-year-old C.’s small gloved fingers clutching your belt as he rides behind you on Caprichosa. Dennis leads the way on his Arabian. Six-year-old J. is close behind him on the old babysitter POA gelding.
The Andalusian mare picks her way cautiously through the coarse long grass, now flattened beneath a blanket of hail. Her breath blows out of her flaring nostrils in big white clouds, and you are trusting her to get you and your boy home. You feel each hoof step. The muscles of her back. The lift of her strong spine. The arch of her neck. Her hindquarters pushing. Pushing all three of you homeward.
From Round Mountain, you can see for miles, the storm strolling along ahead of you, pummeling the aspen leaves from their slender white branches. They cover the forest floor. The air is charged. It smells like steel. You lay your hand on the horse’s neck as she begins the final descent. She is as strong as iron, but the way ahead is long and rocky and steep. You feel the brim of C.’s helmet between your shoulder blades. Say his name. Get no response. Say it again. Then realize that he is sleeping, his little fingers locked in place through your belt loops.
At camp, Dennis lifts C. gently from the horse’s back, half-awake and mumbling. You tuck him into his bed in the horse trailer, pulling the covers up to his chin. Give Caprichosa her grain.
After the storm this evening, the mare is waiting for you at the gate, no longer white, but covered in mud. She marches up to you, flea-bitten ears pricked forward, intent, whickering from a place deep within her broad chest, her strong heart beating.
