It rains on and off, reminding me of Ireland, and the green fields bursting with lambs, my heart.

Patrick steams beneath me, working around the arena, his mane slick to his neck. Tossing his head around, he gathers over the jump, and my body remembers how to fold, light hands moving with his head. He kicks up his heels, feeling good, feeling me feeling good, my emotions condensed into a visible form that is this always-different gray horse.

Work, work, I haven't worked in months. I fill my days with this horse, his snowdrifts of shedding hair, his searching mouth, nibbling my zipper, sleeve, fingers.

Photographs. I see how you see me now.