My cowpokes
She is tiny fingers wrapped around a well-used set of reins. She is a bright smile when she successfully navigates a “reverse at the walk”. She’s a six-year-old with a baby lisp still lingering, “Dessstooor, wok.” She is a twelve-year-old who is starting to understand herself as more girl than child, who occasionally flashes me a look which reminds me that she is not far from dating and driving and growing up. He is the little boy I hope to have someday, with his lightening-fast reasoning and ever-changing imaginary world. He is my buckaroo, my nervous, hunched-over rider who has grown into a straight back and shy smile. They are taps on my shoulder, arms around my neck, horse-hair and sunshine. They are my fearless trotters, my giggling “Miss Dani says” players, my hugs at the end of lesson, my reason for working so hard.
There is nothing more wonderful than a good day with them, nothing more worth doing than watching someone gain the confidence and skill to ride a horse. They constantly astound me with their imaginations, their courage and their hope. I am not doing anything but teaching them to ride once a week, and they have touched me forever, in ways I can never repay.
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