He tugs on the reins, trying to force her to the bank.
Leather, sweat, fear;
these smells will promote a certain nostalgia in days to come,
sitting by the fireplace, on the porch, in the dandelions,
wherever, everywhere.
She is determined not to cross and is determined to pull his arms from the sockets.
There is no other way but this way
no matter how cold the fresh, rushing water,
how thick and threatening the mountain laurel
(hiding demonsmonsterstrolls, whether they are there or not, they could be),
no matter.
Here is where they have to cross.
Hooves flailing and stirrups flying, she rolls her eyes wildly, meeting his.
He must go first.
She can't be led to water
she won't put a foot, a thought into it
until he submerges himself.
The river is rushing high, higher than he has ever seen it,
over the slick river rocks, limbs and logs, jagged, poking out
through the mirror-surface,
water will make its way around these obstacles,
it never ceases, never stops.
It won't stop for him or her or anyone.
She will never cross
His calloused, weathered hands toss his jacket over her head.
The world is shut out.
There are only sounds of unknown origin
magnified by a sharp cold jab, a stumbling uncertainty,
his knowledge, hers, blesserhart, that one misstep could be the end.
Nostrils flare to catch a scent and there is only him.
There is only trust.
