From the North American grasslands
over 55 million years ago. From the genus
Equus, evolving from Pliohippus
during the Pliocene. From a faint
memory or my imagination on the road
from Salinas to the beach one morning,
the sugarcane fields rising up on either side
of us. The sound of its hooves made
a music, one characteristic of
the Puerto Rican Paso Fino,
meaning “fine step” in Spanish. My son rides
each week. On the stable wall, a harness for
each horse, the name written under
its hook. Ohio. Montana.
My son’s father is from Pennsylvania.
My son rides slowly in circles inside
the pen, kicking up black dust, as I walk
in circles outside. Am I Puerto Rican?
He asks. Some days we walk the ground’s
perimeter to be among the horses. To be
among the horses is enough some days.
He holds my hand as we walk. Often,
someone will pass us on the trail, crossing
the bridge over the highway. When we hear
them coming, we step aside. Where are
they going? My son asks. We stop to watch
horses disappear into the mountains.
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