The first day of August.
We are heading into that steamy season that the outside world calls the dog days of summer. Our own dogs would never claim it; they spend their waking hours seeking ways to stay cool.
Here, it is a slightly wild season, one marked by fiery heat and sudden storms, by the frenzied dances of whirlwind spirits and the free flight of beings who decline to be fully domesticated. Some, like the hawks, are spirits of the air; the horses are more earthbound, but no less insistent on their own form of flight, and their own means of freedom.
Like us, they are perhaps at their freest when young, when their world is new: daunting, but not yet real enough to them to hold true terrors. In this season, the worst they will experience is a little thunder, and those like the small fire pony above fast grow used to it, weaned as they are on the rain. He is still able nearly to glue himself to his mother’s side, and the whole of his experience has taught him that her body will shield his own.
We will, assuming the spirits cooperate, have a pair of small fire ponies here soon. Wings’s sister and brother-in-law have brought four of their horses here to graze in an adjacent field, two geldings and two mares; we give them fresh water daily, and now we supplement their food. It has become apparent in recent weeks that both mares are pregnant, and more than just barely. We can only guess at their current stage, but our best estimate is that their small herd will expand to include a pair of gangly foals before the year is out.
Both mares were initially skittish, and the younger one remains so; experience has taught her wariness. The older one is now far enough along to be concerned about having humans close by who are aware of her condition and willing to ensure both her safety and that of her baby, and has clearly made a conscious decision to trust us. As August’s days slowly wane, they will increasingly need our presence and our help.
Still, for now they have free run of several acres, and instead of free rein, no rein at all. This morning’s air held the barest hint of autumn, a bite on the edge of the breeze that reminded me that summer is only temporary. Since them, we have been visited by both hawks and horses, the former at play on the currents high above, the latter dancing in the shade of the willows. They have borders, yes, and fences too, but their world has telescoped down to this small wild space where they can fly. For now, like the tiny fire pony, they are all free spirits of summer.
Fall will fence off our world again soon enough.
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