Today

El Capitan, Guadalupe Mountains National Park

Which do you like better,

I was asked the other day,

riding or writing?

Riding, I replied – but I retract my answer after more consideration because really,

aren’t they the same?

Each a symphony of thoughts.

A meshing of senses.

What is riding if not that?

What is writing if not that?

They are synonymous in keeping the present from being lost to the past.

The horse, my Delphi. My oracle.

Legs stout like marble, back strong as Apollo.

“Make your own nature, not the advice of others, your guide in life.” He says.

He likes to speak in riddles, or not at all, and that is just fine with me.

I write it down. Mull it over.

But don’t you know?

Life is in the doing, not the saying.

He leads; I follow.

I lead; he follows.

A perfectly balanced dance of ink splattering trust across the land.

It was the past which brought me to my present

and someday I will leave this world of four hooves, of pen on paper,

of brilliant color and blowing manes.

But for now, in this moment, the horses wait for breakfast, the dogs lie at my feet, a melody intertwined with French roast drifts through an open window and the sun is only just waking the land.

I think I’ll take it from here, thank you.