Monday, September 7, 2020

When Dobbin Met Bambi

 Harrumph! What is that? A bit skinny I'd say.

If there's one activity where you can happily socially distance, it's riding. (Assuming horses are exempt). And here I have to count blessings because, living out in the sticks, escaping up into the hills on horseback is a realisable dream. I borrowed a horse from a friend and we rode up rocky forested paths and into high meadows stuffed with yellow goldenrod, white Queen Anne's lace, purple aster and pink Joe Pye's weed.

There were also closed gentians of a rich dark blue, hugging the ground so I had to squint to look at them as my horse had long legs. Suddenly, all around us, a flock of some thirty wild turkeys shot  upwards like fireworks. Luckily we clung on, averting disaster - not like the time a few years ago when a massive one exploded up from right under my friend's horse's nose - we ended up, respectively,  in the next county and on the ground. This time we survived to gape at the glorious views - almost to Canada.
  Meanwhile, back at the barn, my friend has been raising an orphan fawn.

Past the spotted stage now, she took a bit of apple from my fingers and nibbled it delicately, her shiny black nose nudging my hand. Funny how sweet they are when they're not eating my flowers.

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