At the paddock where the mountain view dominates, I pause to snap a photo. You’re trying to hurry me along. Snow has already started falling, and we’re on foot two miles from home. But look above the mountains. Wrought by atmospheric forces, the clouds resemble the breath of massive creatures plowing through the sky. You don’t see it? Then look at the groomed surface of the paddock. No hooves have disturbed this manicured ground since the leaves fell and the caretaker raked them away. Look at how dark this fine gravel is. Aren’t you afraid of falling through it, down to the bedrock plotting below? You’ve never much liked horses. You prefer animals small enough to cuddle in your lap. Maybe that’s why you’ve gotten bored with me. If I weren’t afraid of the caretaker, whose mustache bristles like a pine, I’d erect my orange nylon tent in the middle of the paddock and spend a night absorbing the massive distance. The next day I’d return to you in a righteous state, and you’d have to accept whatever I told you about the stars, the mountains, the bedrock pulsing with lust. You’d have to believe me because when the ghost horses came after midnight and tramped me I somehow survived.
