ranch

The ranch smelled sweet yesterday, like clover and hay and horses.  The sky rolled with grey hills of its own, reflecting the valley floor from above. The subjects were matched to verbs that they had no hope of performing.
There's something lovely about being part of a herd. I walked out, broken, to the paddock where five of the seven horses stay. My intent was to increase contact time with another broken being, a former polo horse who was rode hard and put up wet, like a piece of equipment instead of as a lovely horse with her own needs. She wasn't keen on the idea, and every time I was close enough to touch her, she broke into a canter away from me.
The rest of the herd decided that was nonsense.
Each horse, especially my own dear mustang (who isn't actually mine, but follows me like a puppy), formed a moving screen, shielding me from view of the skittish quarter horse, while nonchalantly moving towards her. Eventually, with each horse, I was close enough to round the other side and pet -briefly- the frightened horse, who would then canter less and less far away. The herd and I repeated the show until I was able to get Veinte calm, haltered, and lead her to the round pen. 
She has so many scars.
Like me, now.
I don't know who benefited more from the interaction, her- seeing that not all humans are going to ride and beat her, or me- having someone to tell honestly about grief and loss with no judgement or trite consolation.
At the end of my time with Veinte, we both leaned on each other, my back on her shoulder and her head on my shoulder, resting in the small solace between two broken beings.