She was a palomino quarter horse. The lead mare of the herd, they told me. At that moment it meant nothing to me. Nellie looked just like any other horse that I have seen.

Ironhooves stood there and thought of all the herds he knew. He thought of the day he told Rocky that he would take Phillip’s herd. He was said to be the strongest stallion in the parts that Ironhooves was in. He was blue roan like his mares. He had a black face and black stockings and mane and tail. “I shall find him,” he said.

In the grey mist of morning, Bernadine walked up the path to the stables. The tread of her feet was all she could hear. But then, the tread of a horse and a young man was behind her. Silently, she turned around. A black shape of a heavy built horse came toward her. “Bernadine” said the voice of the man.

Five yearling bachelors were playing in water. One was Ironhooves. He had grown much since the storm. His hooves were the color of bright iron. His mane and tail much longer. He looked much more like a Friesian. He was not like other sons of Thunderhooves. They were wilder.

“Ironhooves. Ironhooves,” yelled Thunderhooves on his hind legs.
A little Friesian foal came running out from behind a bolder. The foal was Ironhooves. He came running up to his strong father.

His eyes are like mystical legends:
What stories they could tell.

Strands of silk is his flowing mane;
It rises and falls like waves.

Graceful is his body, and yet strong;
Majestically does he walk.

His streaming tail is like a flag;
Proudly he carries it.

Like flint upon steel are his hooves:
When he runs, fire flashes.

Powerful is his wild trumpet call;

As the sun peeked over the hills, sending out its first glimmers of light over the frozen, sleeping valley, it showed a glimpse of a man, and a girl, their breath showing in the icy cold, leading two horses toward a trailer. “Whoa, Rocky,” The girl admonished, tugging gently on the lead rope.

Pounding the earth of passing plains
Swiftly he paced, and glimmered in gray
Lifted his neck, and neighed gay
Ran faster from fear above, the ringwraith

Away to the White Towers in proud, strong Gondor
To safe refuge he paced with burdens of two
Pausing and lifting his head to the moon new
He called of rank, and summoned his followers

This barn is twenty-five years old and for three years I have been pretending it belongs to me. This barn is where I spend sixty hours of every week, the place to which I devote all of my time and energy in exchange for the shelter of my beloved horses. This barn holds twelve horses and half of them have left hoofprints in my heart.

1.
It is a cool, lazy Thursday afternoon and I am cleaning stalls while waiting for my three o’clock lesson to arrive. On one of my many journeys to and from the shavings shed, I pause a while outside the back pasture. Sitting on my comfortable log, wiping my brow, I watch the horses interact as they jostle for the last of the winter hay.