My Friend June Says Her Horses, by Courtney Schroeder

My friend June says her horses always lay down, early spring this way. It makes us both feel better about our own laying down. Maybe we don’t have to get tested for Lyme’s, the flu.  Maybe we just need to lay everything else down for awhile — but we can’t, neither of us can. There are doorknobs to fix, bills to pay, animals and children to feed, brush, love, walk through the forest. At least we have the forest. At least, we have one another, even if we hardly   have a moment to talk, I think of June anyway, and of June’s horses, who are — who must be — still laying down, even though spring is a full grown animal by now; June and I still have everything to do, so the horses at least, should lay down in long grass for as long as they want, or as long as they must, and we, for our part can notice what comes, warm rain on a hot day, steam, and we will not try to hold it, at all, any.  From where I stand on my hill, I can almost see June, later on, in June, walking the dog, through the mush of puddle mud grass, doing it because she has to, because she must, but also because what we must do is lovely or can be.  When the horses stand flicking their tails, I want to be standing too, in the summer, in the morning.  I want to be saying yes. Yes, yes.  Not, this is what I must do, alone, but this is what I do, in the middle of the world, in the middle of everyone, as my part in the great weaving.  There is no way to say it, after all, but only to move into it, to step into the buttery morning like a cat, like a deer doing what I do because I have a tongue, have legs, have today and today and today, have my friend June, down below, feeding hay to the horses, who are not laying down anymore, but should.