Elaine Verdill, Boot and Post, 2017
Photograph
Courtesy of the artist
I am afraid to be behind a horse. I would like
to not be afraid, but I know what their legs are
capable of. These horses have never kicked before,
I am told, but any horse can kick, and kick hard if
it wants to. When I am in the stalls, raking through
the soiled shavings, dragging a bucket along the
perimeter to shovel their shit, I have to play it cool.
Horses can sense anxiety. They are intuitive
in that way. In close quarters with the most skittish
of them all, I talk the entire time, narrating every small
rotation of my arms and step of my feet. Just
standing beside you while you eat. Moving to the left
now, don’t mind me. How is the food tonight? Is
it delicious? It looks delicious. I love the smell of hay,
it’s earthy sweet aroma. Through and over the grates,
their thick heads sway and nostrils flare like coat pockets
in the wind. They are beautiful, the horses, but they scare
me. Their impossible size, their chiseled long limbs.
In the wild they would be prey. I remind myself of this
when we are alone. I am trying to prove that I can love
beautiful things that also terrify me. I think I’m here
to care for them, but maybe I’ve got it wrong. Maybe
they know something I don’t