"I'm a Straight Egyptian Arabian and my bloodlines go straight to the desert so I should be trotting in the sand, not the snow." Carole Dell
I am the human member of our own community center. It is called the barn. I share it with three Arabian mares, some winter birds, and too many mice. On snowy mornings, like the ones in these photos, I must traverse a too steep slope to feed some very impatient horses. I start the journey armed with my pitchfork poised like a staff for balance.
While breakfast satisfies the hungry muzzles stretched toward me, I grab a hammer and begin to crack the ice in their water buckets. These are not average barn buckets. They are bright yellow and hang in each stall like spring daffodils blooming on the end of a double snap. Actually, they must be art because I found them at MOMA in New York City. I still wonder how buckets for horses could find their way into a museum shop but, they were spectacular and now they are mine.
Breakfast over, my three mares stomp and snort, their muscles quivering with tense energy. They are three impatient children cooped up too long in the house. Outside, they cavort and play like puppies. Then, with a quick glance at my camera, Aaba, my bay mare and always the show off, throws herself down and disappears in a snowdrift, her tail waving like a planted flag. These photos capture their exuberance and joy.