Livora Gracely

Five flowing manes, and room enough for every stride.

Pffft.

The palomino spat out a mouthful of mane. The other four horses were looking toward the horizon, which was where she would have looked too, given access to her face.

“Ready?” asked the black horse.

“Nearly.”

She shook her head. The wind put everything back.

The Starting Line

They stood on the rise above the meadow: chestnut, black, white, dapple-grey, and palomino. Dew chilled their hooves. Beyond the slope, the grass turned silver wherever the breeze passed over it, and a low white stone marked the far end of the field.

“To the stone,” said the black horse. “All together.”

He took one step forward. The chestnut matched him. The white horse followed, while the grey edged sideways to avoid a thistle.

“Straight line,” said the black horse.

The grey returned to the thistle.

The palomino flicked her forelock aside and looked along the row. “Is this a race?”

“A morning run.”

“Then why are you already winning?”

He looked down at his forefeet and moved them back.

Five Across

They set off with a rustle of grass, then the heavier drumming of hooves on the dry slope. The chestnut’s mane streamed behind him. The grey shook off the last beads of dew, scattering them against the white horse’s neck.

The black horse lengthened his stride.

Beside him, the white horse did the same. The chestnut drew closer on his other side, and the grey moved inward around a patch of nettles. For several strides, five tails lifted and five sets of hooves carried them downhill.

Then the palomino dropped behind.

“Keep up,” called the black horse.

She moved left. The grey was there. She tried right and found the white horse’s flying tail.

Pffft.

This time the hair was not even hers.

The black horse slowed to a trot. The others slowed with him, warm breath blowing through their nostrils. Behind them, the palomino emerged with her ears flattened.

“Shorter steps?” he suggested.

“Wider horses,” she said.

He looked at the white horse, then at the grey. There was scarcely a hoof’s width between them.

“Wider gaps,” she corrected.

Room to Run

The black horse stepped sideways into unmarked grass. The chestnut moved farther out, and the grey found a clear stretch beyond the nettles. The white horse waited while the palomino came alongside.

“Here?” asked the black horse.

She stretched one foreleg, then the other. Her tail swung freely.

“Here.”

This time, he waited for her first step.

They climbed into a gallop. The ground struck firmly beneath them; cool air rushed over their eyes and through their manes. The black horse glanced sideways once. The palomino was still there, running with her nose clear of everyone else’s tail.

Ahead, the white stone rose above a clump of dandelions.

She reached it first.

At the Stone

The black horse pulled up beside her, breathing hard.

“I thought you said it wasn’t a race.”

The palomino lowered her head and bit off a dandelion.

“It wasn’t.”

The chestnut arrived. Then the white horse and the grey, who had gone around another thistle on principle.

The black horse looked back across the broad meadow. Their tracks spread all the way to the rise.

Beside him, the palomino chewed.

“You were in a hurry, though,” he said.

She swallowed and nosed the remaining flowers toward him.

“Breakfast.”

He inspected the dandelions. Then he lowered his head.

The grey pushed between them.

“Now it’s a race.”