The field I walk through to get to the barn is no longer a field. It is a land o' lakes, each puddle of water separated by mounds of melting snow and/or piles of horse dung.
As an adult, I point to the mess and say, "THAT is why I don't like spring."
But today I remembered that when I was young, puddles were meant for jumping. And so, I put on my snow boots, rolled my jeans to my knees, and hopped on through. As drops of water -- and, shall we say, nutrient-rich mud -- splashed around me, I couldn't contain the laughter.
Had there been another human soul around, I think a mud fight may have occurred. But since the only other soul nearby was Wind the Horse, I buried my face in his mane like a giddy little girl and breathed deep his sweet, earthy aroma that always reminds me of fresh-baked bread.
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