There is nothing to compare to those days
at the lake when our whole gang rode hard at
sunrise on the shore’s black sand. Lakes still
evoke the scent of fresh-water and horse manure.
I can’t recall what all we did during those times,
I do know we spent hours just talking, reading,
writing, while letting the horses roam until late.
Then we’d remount and horses and wade
deep into the lake just before the sun deserted
the sky. Those horses trusted us; they swam
a long way parallel to the land until near the
road to go home.
*From Elizabeth Bachinsky's poem Of a Time
from the book Home of Sudden Service.
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