I rode my horse Tomasa on the grassy path between the fence of one of the back paddocks and a low stonewall that divided the property where I boarded her. The greyish-white, crudely built walls snaked through much of this country I had explored. They meandered in ghostly lines, as if early settlers had been clearing the land of rocks, and stonewalls were erected out of an orderly aesthetic. Occasionally I came upon them forming smaller geometric shapes, as if delineating property lines, but I never saw any structural ruins to justify evidence of habitation. Perhaps the forest had reclaimed all but these lines of walls. I could imagine Indians roaming here before white people had arrived, before land was something to be owned, before stonewalls tattooed the wilderness. Their barefoot ponies would have had to step as carefully as Tomasa did over the stones as we picked our way deeper into the woods. A blanket of leaves covered the path we walked, hiding the flat rocks embedded in the dirt, which were slick under her steel shoes. Sunlight shone between the newly bare limbs of the trees, warming my face and neck, the spot between my shoulder blades. Tomasa swished her tail to scatter the late fall flies that tickled her. I could smell the damp earth, the rotting leaves and dying grass. My horse’s fuzzy winter coat gave off its familiar sweet, ripe scent in the warm air, soothing my nerves like an essential oil. The gentle rocking motion of her gait, the cadence of her hooves thudding softly on the path, melted the tension in my limbs. I felt my shoulders fall from where I had been holding them curved in toward my neck, in ancient biological self-protection. I arched my back and opened my chest to breathe in the fragrant odors of the land I trod, the horse I rode, before winter snuffed out my senses.
It was quiet, but I knew life was hovering around us. No scream of a hawk that day, no deer sighting, not even a chipmunk or squirrel darted nearby, but we could feel the pulse of other creatures behind the thin membrane of sight. Tomasa walked calmly underneath me, her breathing slow and even between my calves. The reins hung loose on her neck as she swung her head gently from side to side. It wasn’t until we were coming out of the woods and onto the driveway that led back to the barn that her body tensed up and her step became springy. I picked up the reins as she danced sideways by the edges of a green tarp flapping in the wind where it lay over a big mound of dirt, her hooves skittering on the asphalt road. We skirted the truck yard where big machines were scattered in sci-fi-like abandon. It was the detritus of man that spooked her, not the forest. I patted her neck and spoke to her in a low reassuring voice. I could understand her fear.
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