Christine Howe

It is a summer evening in June. The warm Wyoming summer sun peers over the
sagebrush colored hills that just two months ago had been coated in a glittering monotonous
expanse of white snow. It immerses the little valley in golden light that flows through the green
pastures and cottonwood groves, mimicking the movement of the winding river. In the southeast
end of the valley, a green pasture crowded with rippling stalks of knee-high grass sits peacefully
in the place it has occupied for generations. As the sun sinks lower in the sky, the swishing of the
grass is permeated with another sound - the distant thudding of hundreds of hooves and the
exhilarated whooping of three women. As the sound grows louder, the first horse crests the hill, a
dappled buckskin with white socks to his knees and black mane dancing gayly behind him. Close
as his pounding heels is a bay mare, flying low to the ground as she races to take the lead. They
dip out of sight for a moment in a small gully, then reappear in the opposite hillside. A second
later, it seems as if a flood-gate has opened as the rest of the herd comes pouring into view
behind them, joyful in the feel of the wind pushing against them and the grass bending to their
wild advance.
At the back of the herd on my tall white gelding, Pow, I look away from my mom and
Katherine urging the horses on to see the buckskin and the bay veer to the left on the small slope,
into the welcoming green pasture filled with what they think is their dinner; but we must
continue through this pasture to Upper River, the pasture they will spend the night in. I watch as
the other 113 horses follow the path of their two leaders and click to Pow, and with an excited
surge his strides lengthen and we glide past the already rushing horses, running faster and faster
past their tossing bodies towards the front. As the posted wrangler on the left side of the mob, we
have to turn them to the right before their pace slows, or else it will be nearly impossible to get
them out of this luscious pasture into the next.
Faster and faster we surge forward, leaping ditches and dodging small bushes until we
pass onto the hillside where the front horses have made their escape, my heart racing with
excitement and the daunting task of turning 113 galloping horses the opposite direction. With a
shout that makes their ears prick Pow and I come up behind them and to the left, my lead rope
twirling in my right hand above my head and my left loosely gripping the reins. I pass the reins
over Pow’s neck and we wheel to face the buckskin and the mare, still racing through the grass
that whipps at his legs. I stare warningly into their eyes as they toss their heads before pivoting
on their hind legs with a stirring grace. I feel as though I can feel the blood pulsing through their
veins and their muscles powering them forward, and in a split moment I am forced to realise the
beauty of being alive. Pow tosses his head and dances forward, a celebration of our success. We
slow momentarily to watch the river of horses flooding by, and he crow-hopps a bit as my mom
and Katherine pass, shouting their appreciation at our maneuver. We leap into a lope to catch up
and continue into Upper River, where the horses pass through the gate and spread out from their
tightly knit mob to occupy the broad pasture. With impeccable timing, the sun finishes its slow
ascent and disappears behind the hills with a concluding warm sigh.
 Christine Howe

This experience was the first of many I have had that highlighted the importance of
taking the time to be grateful and appreciative of the miraculous ability we have as humans to
fully appreciate the beautiful details of life. As I watched the horses graceful movements, I felt as
though I was a part of them too, and could feel their muscles pumping and their blood flowing.
Coupled with the lively landscape we were in, with the flowing river on one side and the waving
grass beneath me, there was an overwhelming pull from the aliveness of everything. Since then, I
have sought to find these moments and snippets in time where the earth pulls at me and forces
me to recognize it’s beautiful life, as big as my first or small. Sometimes it is the way the light
hits the mountains in a golden arc, sometimes a bit of green moss on a rock. Other times it is the
sound of a friends’ giggle in the back of my car, or the way my parents' hands look intertwined.
Or the cream swirling through an iced coffee,
Or light breaking through the cloud in gleaming streams,
Or the song of crickets on a summer night,
Or the snorting of horses through the darkness,
Or the embrace of a family friend, long parted,
Or the soaring grace of a red tailed hawk in a blueberry sky,
Or the heat of the desert sand against bare feet,
Or staying up late with friends,
Or making my momma laugh,
Or sitting in the sunshine with a good book,
Or the way a pine forest smells after the rain.
Each day brings the opportunity to gaze upon a moment like the one in the meadows,
unique in its place in time and space; the only thing preventing anyone from seeing the
miraculous beauty around us is their own perception. Open your eyes to all the brilliant things.