Morning Nap

On my way in to the lake, each of Claire's horses stood, one back leg relaxed with hoof up, toe light on the ground. They made a line, next to the shrubs where summer's Gliders flew. A wind break for them, I think.

On my way out, two stood still, but the third lay on the ground, eyes closed, nose to earth, lower lip loose.  

Later, when I photographed one of her bowls, I saw her russet glaze as if for the first time -- the horses' coats outside, sky inside -- I could feel their contentment, cherished by a gentle hand.