Moon Horse

Tonight on my usual run up Faban, on the usual path, I bumped into some other runners running down and they told me that a horse had fallen on its back and was stuck, so they were on their way to fetch rope and help to lift her up again. They said I wouldn’t miss the horse but I carried on running and couldn’t see a thing. (I wondered how a horse could fall on its back). Slowly the light and everything disappeared, and for a moment I questioned whether I had experienced some kind of miraged encounter after a very long day. I ran up and down the mound to keep warm and waited for the runners to come back - and they did - so I followed them. On a dusk ashen hill there I was with four strangers and a fallen horse. A blanket was laid on its back and there was this access of grace and silence and trust. Rope was hooped round its hooves and a woman stroked its nose and said ‘you’re ok’, softly over and over. Two tired eyes like silver mirrors , the gentle hoisting of a still backed beast , and the motion of a group of strangers - meeting. I watched them roll the roped weight of something stilled and cold…And then she lifted! Ten hundred feet above ground and into the night! A beautiful moment. We all parted paths (such lovely strangers) and I imagined the mountain as a kind of night circus … the tired acrobat , the silver thieved moon. The moment a horse falls. Like a Chagall painting…or something 

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