I’ve always loved my neighbors’ horses; no matter how scorching the heat or brutal the storm, they remain stolidly grazing, heads down and serenely unperturbed. I take comfort in their tranquility.
The arrival of new foals also reminds me of beauty’s ephemeral permanence. The eagle soars away, the startled deer bounds across the field, and the lilies fade, but the horses remain. Individuals may disappear, but lovely little beings come to replace them.
The perpetually changing constancy of my landscape reminds me of lines from Walt Whitman’s “Song of Myself”: