Horse. Woman.

By Anna Blake

"It was a tough life if you was useless.” -Leafa Numbers Blake
My grandmother proudly claimed she had delivered more foals and calves than any woman in early 1900s North Dakota. Like her, we’ve found a purpose building our lives, sometimes elbow deep in dirt and blood, but doing whatever work that needed to be done. Horses have always been our north star.
For many of us, the cowboy persona has never been a good fit. Women have earned a narrative about our own lives with horses and the land. We tell a uniquely female account of living and working with horses, coming out of the shadow of cowboy hats and spurs. For us, it was never about fighting for domination. It was always about herd and home.

For many of us, the cowboy persona has never been a good fit. Women have earned a narrative about our own lives with horses and the land. We tell a uniquely female account of working with horses, coming out of the shadow of cowboy hats and spurs. For us, it was never about fighting for domination. It was always about herd and home.

Spotted Horse

Both horsewomen would remember
this moment. A blustering wind, not
cold, but bitter. Misty clouds settled
the dust. A gelding stood between

them, aged beyond the math of his
years. Not quite thin but not strong
either. Looming with stilted tension
as if uncomfortable in ill-fitting clothes.

Was it his arthritis? The chronic hoof
problem? Not that he would ever
complain. His sunken eyes watering,
thick eyelids half-closed. Maybe he was

mentally retreating, not that he would
ever say no. The gelding stood tall but
the horsewomen knew he wasn’t quite
right. Eyes watering, probably the wind.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anna Blake
• Release date: Oct 29, 2020
• ISBN: 9781732825864

Anna Blake

I’m an animal advocate, award-winning author, solo RV traveler, old-school feminist, dog companion, unabashed lover of sunsets, and professional horse trainer/clinician. I’m sixty-nine years old. I’ve done just about everything and done it well. No longer auditioning.My books include:Stable Relation, A memoir of one woman’s spirited journey home.Relaxed & Forward: Relationship advice from your horse.Barn Dance, Nickers, brays, bleats, howls, and quacks: Tales from the herd.Horse Prayers, Poems from the Prairie.Going Steady, More relationship advice from your horse.Horse. Woman. Poems from our lives.Undomesticated Women: Anecdotal Evidence from the RoadI was born in Cavalier County, North Dakota, in 1954, the youngest daughter in a farm family. Now I live at Infinity Farm, on the flat, windy, treeless prairie of Colorado with a herd of reprobates, raconteurs, and our moral compass, Edgar Rice Burro. Previously, I was a self-employed goldsmith, showing one-of-a-kind artwork in galleries from coast to coast. My Denver studio and gallery were shared with generations of good dogs.Early writing included a few screenplays, one of which was produced independently, and articles for several periodicals. Every Friday since 2010, I have posted an unconventional and popular blog about life on the farm and horse training. My unique perspective combines Calming Signals and Affirmative Training for a special method of understanding, training, and respecting animals.Thank you for stopping by.

Book preview

Burning Snow

Dream Horse

He’s midnight black with

steely eyes, on hooves so

light they make no sound

as he sails and spins, and

gallops with trees in the wind.

Cut from a worn tire, his frayed

mane and tail replaced with

new purple cord. Sometimes

years pass between pony rides

for children. An old campaigner

still treasured like the horses

who graze the pasture. Though

grown too big for his saddle, we

keep him safe. The proud breed

that carried us first. A shrine to a

girlish phase we refuse to outgrow.

Light Snow

The night snow floats down, each flake so light

that it doesn’t land so much as hover precariously

over fence wire and posts. Light enough to seem

transparent, lacking a gasp of breeze or a hint of

moisture to seal it to the ground. The horses wait

in long stillness through the icy dark, conserving

even their restlessness. Hair so dense it stands up

straight on passively braced bodies, knees locked

over hooves on frozen ground, shallow breathing

against the knife air. As soon as the sun is a quarter

high, they move to the dry lot, each horse turning

a circle one direction, perhaps the other, stirring

snow into the sand before dropping to the ground.

The young black gelding throws himself down in a

hurry to roll off the night, but the older gelding takes

several steps shifting his hooves closer front to back.

His muscles straining to hold, then blowing steam out

as he eases down, care for his stiff joints. Long shadows

on this pale morning, as the horses let the earth take

their weight and as ever, the earth warms to hold them.

Boundary

Dim light elongates in the lavender dusk,

boundaries soften to faded nuance. Barn

horses bolt at an inaudible sound, then

spin to face the intruders, ears tall. Only

deer, three, just outside our fence, making

their way to the pond. The male stops,

turning his antlers full-on, glaring white

throat markings draw attention, as two

does wait in his tracks. Now they see the

donkey and I watching the sunset. All

of us listen long, until the horses settle

back to hay, and the deer continue to the

mossy pond edge where the mallards are

preening. No coyotes tonight, only restless

house dogs. Others move soundlessly, birds

on barn rafters, rabbits and rodents scurry

past haystacks to grain feeders. Shadows

span more than boundaries can isolate, any

line drawn between wild and domestic fades

as the perimeter fence disappears with the sun.

Mother, May I?

The young visitor stared at the bay mare’s face. "Would you like to

brush her?" I ask. Sending the girl for the grooming bag, I haltered

the mare, a visitor to the farm herself. After showing the girl about

currying and brushing with the grain of the hair, she set to the task

with immense thoughtfulness in each stroke, giving special attention to

the mare’s mane until it was perfect, her other hand smoothing it down,

chipped nail polish on small fingers, so delicately she could have been

a fly, while the mare kept her head low to her hay. "Would you like to

lead her?" I ask. The girl nodded, her eyes solemn with responsibility.

Inside the pen, I walked the first circle with them, asking the girl to

stand at the mare’s shoulder, to let the rope be slack, and with a nod

to the mare, I stepped back, suggesting the girl take giant steps and baby

steps, like Mother, May I? The mare naturally matched her, as she had

done with her herd since she was a filly, but the mare’s size made it seem

magical to the girl. Walking over, I un-clicked the lead rope, rolled it up,

and said, Big breath, and walk just like before. The