Maverick was the first horse I cried over when he found his forever home. It's a wonderful home, and we get updates on him all the time. I even did a story on him and his new mom, Jane, for Massachusetts Horse. What makes Maverick's story extra special is that now he is doing the rescuing. Jane and he are a certified Search and Rescue team!
So, after humans rescued him, now he can return the favor. It's beautiful!
The following the first stanza of a poem I wrote called "Present Grace." It captures that perfection of early morning chores. The Moment.
Buddhists might be envious.
I don’t work mornings in the barn anymore; I couldn’t take the topsy-turvey schedule when I’m normally up until 3 or 4AM .
Still… I miss this bit of presence.
Present Grace
Whip-whip-whip-or-whill. Whip-whip-whip-or-whill.
Whittle-whittle-whittle whip. Whittle-whittle-whip.
Whill. Whi-ill.
A poets’ bird sings above me. Maverick paws the ground, stomps to remind me he’s the center of my world, not the silly bird. I chuckle, return to the circular curry massage. He leans into it, tilts his head in equine ecstasy: I’m doing it juuuuuust right. His scent, sweaty, earthy, horse musk fills my nostrils. Flecks of old skin, bits of dirt, flicks of summer coat tickle my nose.
My fingers dig into luxurious winter coat. Heavier than velvet, softer than wool, radiating heat this early morning. He’s not a morning person either, I can tell. He stands for grooming, eyes half closed, head lazily hanging at half mast. At least I can reach his forelock this way.
Whip-whip-whip-or-whill.
Behind the birdsong, the soft hiss-drip of the water hose that never quite shuts off. A little white noise, relaxing waves through sun-rise pink barn. Maverick ceases his stomps and lets me lean few moments, nestle my cheek into brown and white comfort.
I am. He is. We are that we are.
Preserve that special moment for horses and humans, and donate to the BSER.
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