When the wind comes up, the strands always find their way to fairy knots. Randomly woven spirals of black and brown and white bound together like ribbons round the maypole. Some wound over, some wound under, others crossing left then right then left again.
To untangle them requires fingers willing to be patient. To rush means to pull the hair, to end up with a mass of disconnected threads, purposeless in palms and discarded to be picked up on stray breeze.
The hands know time must be taken. First to find the end point. Then, to follow the line back, a braided river, until you’re left with curling, coiled ribbons that extend a good few inches below the curve of the lower neck.
I find myself humming as I work, a tune I do not recognize, that feels familiar and all of once of a different time and place. I wonder what forces are at work that sing tunes within us, that wait for spaces, pockets of time such as these to bring themselves to life.
The air is very still, perfect for early morning tinkering. For early morning hello-how-you-doing-reconnecting.
I find myself within a flush of happy, bathed in a contentment only found when you are back in your place, with your horse people.
I brush tangled strands into silken rivers. Trim tails that have been busy growing while I’ve been gone. Bridle paths that have found their way to 80’s mohawks.
I think to myself, if someone were to look over the fence in half an hour, the time when I had left the field and not to be seen, they would know that I’d returned.
Free strands of mane that move like beaded curtains are my calling card.
Home.
