there is an air of freedom unconquerable.
The eyes seem to look on heights beyond our gaze.
It is the look of a spirit that can soar …
It is the birthright of eagles.”
Her first time riding a Thoroughbred had been a little frightening. The horse stood prancing and eager as she took the reins and tried not to look at the ground so far away. She remembered hinting to the horse that she was ready and the sudden jolt forward in response.
She was riding quicksilver; such a steed demanded her utmost skill and focus. She had to balance and reassure the animal; she had to both follow and lead. She had to remind herself to breathe.
Only once did she truly gallop on a Thoroughbred. Her mount had been a claim horse on a backwater racetrack, a “prospect” being bought by her trainer. She remembered letting the reins out a notch and standing in the stirrups, feeling the horse opening his stride. The chiseled head mouthed the bit and pushed into the bridle, bounding forward in fluid strides that spilled across the soft earth.
She had opened the reins and felt the horse leap into them. The wind rose above all sounds, narrowing the world to just hooves exploding along the ground—and then the horse uncoiled and lifted, and the gallop was not a gallop anymore but a bolt and she was shooting through a tunnel of wind leaving the world outside stopped and static, a frozen background to the thunder beneath her that pounded on and on…