The field was awash with a dense fog when I pulled up to feed my gelding tonight. The horses were amorphous blobs drifting through the grey clouds like the dark shadows of fish in a pool. Except for a pale orb which described a small parabola nearby; Panache slinging his white face with irritated impatience. He thinks I'm *always* late regardless of when I get there. A reluctant nicker betrays his eagerness as he greets me when I slip through the gate to halter him. Wataching him eat, feeling the dank stillness, smelling the pungent earth - I release the tensions of phone calls, deadlines, complaints. I'm on horse time.

When I lead him back through the gate he comes around just enough that I won't pull him in but I have to reach as far as possible to undo the cheek-strap. Gives his head a peevish shake, realizing the stream is about 30 yards away and yawns... well, he's got all night to get there ... nothing much really doing ... might stand here awhile, hour or so .. maybe get a thought, who knows ... ho hum ...