Through the gate into the pasture with my purple checkered boots squishing through mud-rutted hoof prints I hop to avoid the mounds of manure step long to land on the matts of hay My eyes scan the hill looking for Gypsy the chestnut quarter horse I've borrowed to ride. The deer at the bottom of the pasture are already in motion running nimbly, gracefully arching over the split rail fence, leaving a sentinel behind, ears wide, motionless, facing, watching me. Horses lack such suspicion. Gypsy lies on the brown grass like a large dog. Slowly, after eating the carrot I offer, he braces his forelegs and gets up, ready to follow me . Sonny and Star lurk nearby like high school boys plotting trouble. Old Ivan grazes on, not lifting his head. The sun is warm on our backs. The lead rope is slack in my hand as Gypsy and I move toward the gate.