There are tiny, fragrant yellow flowers blooming on bushes along the road I’ve walked a hundred times. In the strong, spring wind they bustle about, and their scent – something like jasmine and lilac combined, but more pungent, punched with desert – intoxicates you until there is only summer and mountain crests and the sound of warm air rushing past your ears.
Or until the dogs yank you, arms flailing, into the ditch alongside the road, crashing your reverie to pieces as a baby jackrabbit twitches its ears and makes a break to escape.
Move further up the loop.
There are wary horses all over San Fidel, and they wander away from you into the sage and cholla nibbling all the while, sometimes seeking shade or shelter among the branches of the gnarled, scrubby Gambel oaks. In the sweet light, a bag of old, grizzled baby carrots helps if you want to lure them out of hiding, eyes blinking, as they inch closer to treats and shutter clicks.
The grey one is cautious, but personable, once you get to know him. The paints don’t mind you unless you hinder dinner. The sweet chestnut with the bridle will let you scratch its nose.
The little brown foal with the white hourglass on his face – christened “Lucky” after cheating death at the hands of your friend’s large, red Toyota one sunrise – ducks behind his mother to avert the gaze of the camera, then forgets to be afraid when he finally finds a sweet, orange bite on the ground – maybe his first one ever.
Everyone gets familiar, as you all occupy the same space, vast and windy though it is.
Be well.
– SAWK