It is the season of the horse and of its tack and trappings:
Pieces of iron, bent in a deep crescent and pierced with holes.
Shiny footwear, worn like plates attached with drilled spikes.
For barefoot horses, no need and of no use, now tossed over a hook, a collection of heavy metal strands left to oxidize in the elements, turning from lead to red and all the colors in between.
An aged saddle, worn like threadbare jacket; old leather, worn far beyond well.
Torn and frayed now, wrinkled with the passage of time.
Yet . . . still in one piece, a product of strong old stitches threaded by hand; no longer one color, but a waterwashed palette of moiré browns faded to warm gold; a saddlehorn listing gently to one side, clutched and bent by generations of riders.
Day’s end; trail’s end.
Hat tossed casually atop an old wooden wearing the heavy regalia of iron horseshoes.
Horses put up for the day, watered and fed and safely housed, readied for rest.
Yet around the crown, their spirits still gallop, watchful equine warriors in a running round dance.
~ Aji
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