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Post by {{helena}} on Oct 26, 2008 20:14:49 GMT -5
Once we hit the trail, we're off. Storm is flying through the trees and over the hard autumn ground. The leavs alre falling and blowing all around us. It's a magical run.
Storm picks up the pace when he knows we're heading home. He's clocking at nearly 40 miles per hour and maybe not even at a full gallop yet. We arrive at a hill and he taks it in stride: bounding up it and cantering steadily down, so as not to hurt himself. He's sweating up a storm, now, as am I. It is warm out for fall.
When we reach the stream I bring him to a walk and let him ford it. He stops in the middle and takes a nice long drink and then begins to paw the water; signaling that he is going to roll. I kick him on an he leaps out onto the bank and it off toward the barn again. The pastures are now in sight and I slow him to a canter. It is smooth and bouncy. "Good boy," I say, as he slows to a trot and we enter the barnyard. "Good boy." |
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