Wrangler Dani

…but it’s much more complicated than I thought.  To write about it, anyways.

Yesterday I wrote a description of a running horse herd in an open pasture and found myself wiping away tears and not even sure why.  I remember standing in a dry creek bed with manes and tails flying by and hooves pounding.  The dull thud of hoofbeats on dusty ground and their spirited snorts as they tramped the ground. The smell of horsehair and broken sagebrush and the hot wind on my face.  The center of a riled-up horse herd is a dangerous place to be, as any seasoned cowpoke will tell you, but one clap from my hands and my herd knew I meant business, despite their excited state.

The sun was setting. I was where I needed to be.

My herd is gone now, sacrificed to the sensibilities of city jobs and necessity.  I just got turned down for another horse-related job and I am heart-broken. I’m at a loss to describe how the life of mountain trails and early mornings and sweaty horse-blankets and lyrical, simple cowboy advice and bygone times stirs me. For now, I’m trying to recapture it on the page. It’s harder than it seems, despite the simpler times.