walk. whistle. walk.

i have spent the day reading on the porch, mostly art related texts and a few chapters of Calvino, as well as finishing off the slim volume The Situation and the Story: the Art of Personal Narrative. between readings i search online and find some bridles and bridle hooks in town. pastoral, one might say, this sonoma setting. it is hot today, and i recall earlier visits of the summer. suzanneI rings my mobile and i slip into trainers as we speak, headed out of the farm house and down the road a mile or two into the sunset. soon my battery runs out and i am alone in the road. dusk settles. the bats join in, flying overhead and circling close. on my return i whistle to the horse out in the paddock. he lifts his head from a pile of hay and comes right over.