I have a confession. At one time in my life I was head over heels in love with horses. I read about them (Black Stallion, Misty of Chincoteague), collected them (Breyer), and even wrote about them (thank you Mrs. Fletcher, best 1st grade teacher ever).
As a teen, I had the opportunity to ride horses with my best friend. Her horse was a shiny bay quarter horse, tall and strong with soft brown eyes. The horse I got to ride? Stormy, the mostly thoroughbred with a loose lip and a sense of humor. Still, I rode Stormy around the desert valley where we lived. She even helped me compete in the gymkhanas at the fair grounds.
Then I graduated from high school and horses became a thing of my past.
Every once in a while, though, I dream of thundering hooves and whipping manes as I, crouched down over her neck, urge Stormy on faster and faster.