I gallop bareback, a filly named Sally, matching her movement—weightless, face whipped by mane, nose filling with musky sweat, leather, manure. Sally’s hooves, throbbing claps. Blinding sun— My shoulder bounces off rock, face splays in nettles, nose bleeds. Still. People stand in horseshoe around me, lips moving. Sally saw…
At sixteen on a balmy August day by Richard Fox
