where the writers are
Language of Gestures

Our third blizzard. The horse waits by the pasture fence for the car to pull in, but it won't, not for days. He has plenty of grain and sheaves of hay, good enough. Still I see him in the mind's eye. His eyes scan mine mid-day as I stare out at the hurrying snow. It's not the beet pulp he cares for anymore, though he will eat it happily enough if you bring the green bucket steaming with the earthy punk warmth of the soaked shreds. It's the company he craves, watch him with Natalie when he's not seen her for a week. The high pitch of her singing and his head drops to hers, gently, his nose lifts the weight of her hair, the same deft move with which he clears the snowbound grass of the red pebbles that line the drive. A sort of swishing back and forth and then he scissors the green tips free of red stone. Sound of a horse grazing at the end of a lead, it'd settle a bank robber or a thief. I am reading Thoreau's letters, anxious for more about Cape Cod. But the yield is bitter, meagre. The wreck of the Elizabeth:

The cook, the last to leave, & the steward will know the rest. I shall try to see them. In the meanwhile I shall do what I can to recover property and obtain particulars. Wm H. Channing..has come with me...we got here yesterday noon. A good part of the wreck still holds togetherwhere she struck, & something may come ashore with her fragments....

Nothing at all like the grown girl with her horse. A language of gestures, unscripted as the skating on a frozen pond, that first moment when laced and stiff with the tightness of the old skates, the ache of the blade on the ball of the foot--then the glide takes you and you're off. It's like that with the two of them. The horse at first dodgy with her hand in mid-air, thinking where have you been? and why should I bow my head to your chest? Then her voice clarite, claritas, running like water, and he exhales noisily, infinitesimally leans in, and it's fine now, things are as they were. She can scratch his wooly ears, the cowlick in the dark  sea of his face, heart shaped, whirling.