one day

  Imagine with me, if you will, this one day that I dream of...

  Waking up to a sun flecked morning, the air once again filled with the heady spice of stranded kelpy and balsam fir pitch.  The sun beckons me out of my old bed early through the dormer windows, the kitties meowing about my feet as I stumble about to make coffee.  I drink my coffee on the tiny front porch, the wind swishing about the trees by our little cabin nestled in the Sussex hillside.  Our only neighbour the forest, stretching on and on with whispered invitations to explore, to know, to love, each and every tree.

  Winnie, my gypsy cob, knickers at me from her corral, for she is eager for her breakfast too.  As I bring her a pail of grain and some hay, her beauty catches my breath.  Her long, white mane flowing gustily in the breeze, the long hair about her feet dancing about as she steps around to greet me with a gentle nuzzle into my neck.  I reach up to scratch her neck and she eyes me with that look.  That look that says, "this is a morning for riding."

  I glance up to our bedroom window; Mike would be sleeping for a few hours yet.  When Winnie had had her fill, I carry out the tack and saddle her.  Her excitement builds as I mount her and we wind our way down quiet dirt lane that leads both away and home again with unerring faithfulness.

  The morning is fresh, promising a hot day, but for now the dew is not yet dry and shivers hide in the shadows.  The chickadees frolic in the trees above us and they, like me, must wonder what faerie tale they've wandered into.

   We arrive at our destination, the natural amphitheatre, in good time, the happy friendly birds still with us and their joyous song echoing off the green vestured walls and mingling with the music of the trickling water.  Lush ferns and grasses live and flourish upon the steep slopes rising up from our tiny trail and the brook beneath us.   I let Winnie graze there as I sit upon a large stone and attempt once more to write out the beauty that surrounds me.  She teasingly nuzzles my notebook but sees that I am deep into my thoughts and moves off.

  I watch her leave, this gypsy cob that surely must have descended from the unicorns, home at last in this natural faerie realm and watched over by the faerie folk that inhabit this valley.  The water sprites whisper in the music of the brook, and tiny elves peek out from behind the rocks and ferns.  A wood nymph eyes Winnie closely as she gently nibbles at some clover beneath his tree, but with deep reverence, she is careful not to harm the old aspen, and the wood nymph sighs with relief.

  All too soon the sun gets higher and hotter, and I've no mind for Winnie to have a rider in the heat of the day.  As we ride back home again I tell her stories of the trees I've known, and the stories they have told me as she listens intently, plodding along at her own pace.  When we reach our hill, I dismount and walked alongside her, still telling her the stories she seems to love to hear.

  Gillie joyfully runs down the lane to meet us, meowing his welcomes, and both he and Winnie pause to sniff each other and receive the olfactory gossip we humans are not privy to.  As we round the bend, our little log cabin comes into view and I see that Mike is awake and having his coffee now.  He smiles at our oddball trio, his eyes full of love for us and happiness for his life.

  That would be a great day.