Everything was moving, pixilated, snowsplintering down and nestling in the yellow grass.March: a constant darting in the corner of my eyes,time of year the world wants us to lookseveral places at once. And smell: mixture of hay and mud,sunlight on straw, and not a scent but a ticklein the nose while brushing the horseto help him shed his winter coat, the hair fallingin wisps and clumps, inciting the barn swallows'deft descents from the rafters to pick upa single blade of straw, a beakful of hairfor weaving a nest that will be soft and warm.All winter the horse had paid closer attention to methan any human. When I rode him bareback,all I had to do was lookwhere I wanted to go and he could sensefrom my seat all the way up my backthe slight direction my neck had turned.He weighed 953 pounds. To make him stop,all I had to do was hold my breath.