![](https://www.jessiehaas.com/rails/active_storage/representations/redirect/eyJfcmFpbHMiOnsibWVzc2FnZSI6IkJBaHBBeTVCQVE9PSIsImV4cCI6bnVsbCwicHVyIjoiYmxvYl9pZCJ9fQ==--84cd2b1657d4fc7170a606e1d89b8bbe40b778e7/eyJfcmFpbHMiOnsibWVzc2FnZSI6IkJBaDdCem9MWm05eWJXRjBTU0lJYW5CbkJqb0dSVlE2RkhKbGMybDZaVjkwYjE5c2FXMXBkRnNIYVFMZ0FXa0M0QUU9IiwiZXhwIjpudWxsLCJwdXIiOiJ2YXJpYXRpb24ifX0=--d00c0b801be2eac628730b2b4ffb891cbdd69dfe/pict1800.jpg)
Yes, I ride her. But I keep my wits about me.
The fourth stanza of a horse poem from Hoofprints. The accompanying picture captures the spirit of spring in Vermont--muddy and explosive. Spring is here but the grass isn't greening up yet, and we all have a bit of cabin fever.
This rider stays on
--that's all--
eight seconds.
Legs fly loose,
spurs scratch fore and aft,
and then at last the whistle blows.
Let go!
This rider stays on
--that's all--
eight seconds.
Legs fly loose,
spurs scratch fore and aft,
and then at last the whistle blows.
Let go!