Warm as toast.

Sarah Christopherson rode by again today, her horse fetlock deep in the gritty snow on the roadside. That arab mare was on one, tossing her head and dancing. “I think they smell spring,” Sarah laughed. And truly, when I jumped the fence this morning to walk next to Tiger, one hand on the crest of his neck, he turned as if to nip at me. Cheeky indeed. “No,” I said. He turned away, as if he were thinking that over, then did it again. “NO,” I said, and he seemed to settle down. Sometimes, when I try to walk next to him, in his rhythm, it makes him nervous, and he will suddenly speed up – hopefully without kicking as he does. But after I spoke so firmly, he seemed to lose his cheek, and walked with me easily.

Still, even Jetta was bucking and kicking a little the other day in the crisp pre-snow afternoon.

I looked up at Sarah, riding in just a hoodie in sub-thirty degree weather. “Get home before you freeze,” I told her. But I’ve ridden horses in the ice and snow and I know the truth – especially on a fractious mare whose fretted herself sweaty – a person sitting on a horse is almost always going to be warm as toast.

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