On animal instincts

The wild horse lived in a field on a green Colombian mountainside. She’d been fenced in, but no-one could get near her. I walked by her every morning, on the way to town. She’d watch me, from faraway, ears up, tail swishing. So each afternoon I’d stop at the fence, a bunch of long grass from the gully in my hands. I’d stand and look over the hillside for about twenty minutes. Then I’d drop the grass over the fence and leave. Each day she was a bit closer when I rounded the path by her enclosure. Until one day she was two armslengths away, watching me unabashedly. And then one armslength. She stood, I stood. We regarded one another. I could feel her curiosity, the tugging desire in her to approach and feel a live warm body beside her, to munch fresh grass. Her head jerked up, as if she were trying to toss off the conflict in her like it was a loose harness.

And I knew what to do, as if she’d whispered the words in my ear. Slowly, like a stretch, I turned and faced the road. Ever so slowly I pushed the grass tips through the gate slats, still holding the bundle.

Sure enough, I heard her legs shift, her body heave, and then felt the warm tickle of her breath as she pulled at the grass.

And so you will forgive me for finding my animal instincts a blessing, for rejoicing in their subtleties, for following them carefully but surely as a mountain deer picking her way through the rocks. As though I were being led by grace.