Together, we plunge through the downpour. I glance back after my initial burst of speed away from him and kick up my heels, bucking midstride only when I’m confident my hooves won’t accidentally clip him on the nose. He stays behind me, a sun chasing the night, and for a minute I entertain the thought of how cool it would be if horses could actually glow. My dance partner would shine brilliantly.
His grace on the beach doesn’t seem to translate to our game: I feel the heat of his breath on my haunches more than once but each time my skin shivers with anticipation of a nip that never comes. I peek back at him the next time he gets close and watch him trip— intentionally? I don’t know. He laughs over the sound of the rushing river and the rainfall, and I grin in return. Throwing my dished head back, I stretch my legs in another burst of speed and run nimbly over the roots and through the dense underbrush as I follow a nearly-invisible trail.
The river has risen and I can see its current pulsing to my left. It ushers us along, louder than the rain, an encouraging roar in my ears. FatherSound, I know, will have a much more impressive voice. It is the ocean I run to. I am eager as ever to smell the briny sea and frolic across the beach. I check on my dance partner a third time. "Hurry up!" I shout, hoping to goad him into passing me. I haven’t tired of leading the way but this no longer feels like a challenge, and I am restless. The air smells suddenly cooler, a tiny wafting chill that smells of salt and wet, somehow different from the rain. We are close. |