Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player,
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,
And then is heard no more. It is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.

~ William Shakespeare

Her breathe is ragged as we uncoil from the rocky soil up into the ether.

We unfurl like a white flag into the bruised blue and ocher of the day's end. I know I should rein the horse back to a walk. I know she's on the mend.

But Caprichosa's excitement is contagious, and neither one of us is prone to surrender. It's been a long time since we've ridden like this together. As we fling ourselves skyward from the bottom of the hill, we are remembering. Remembering who we are.

Together.

The mare's hooves cleave the red earth. Split the red rocks. Scramble over rivulets. Chew up the rain-gutted trail in staccato gunshots. The sound of our ascent ricochets off the canyon walls.

I look down at the ground slipping away from us. The spraying rocks. The cattle dogs breathing hot on our heels. Feel no need to grab the mare's mane despite her churning somewhere between this bliss and an abyss so dark I can't imagine.