Heartstrings : Relatives

Thursday, February 28, 2013

Relatives

These last few weeks have been a bit of a wash as far as spending time with the horses - winter finally arrived in Colorado and we've gotten some much needed snow (and less needed wind and cold). I've also been down for almost a week with an awful cold/flu bug. Despite all that, some exciting things are in the works for the Tall Bay and I, which I will elaborate on at a later date...

For now, have some pictures of Dani's Andalusian family!

This is her sire, Dejado Habano who lives in California (photo credit The Whole Ranch):

This is her grandsire Esteban B who lives a few stalls away, and competes in 4th Level dressage (photo credit Classical Legacy)

This is her great-grandsire, Maluso, who is in New Zealand and still breeding at age 28. His previous owner was nice enough to send this older picture to me - isn't he a hunk of a horse?

I've also found a whole bunch of pictures of my girl's half-siblings that are out in the world - as far as I know, she's the oldest. I've included the two, one colt and one filly, that look the most like her.

5 comments:

Calm, Forward, StraightFebruary 28, 2013 at 2:26 PM
Nice looking family :D Her g-grandsire is built!
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Lara ElizabethFebruary 28, 2013 at 2:52 PM
I added sire and grandsire - you can really see the resemblance between the paternal line.
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Beka BurkeMarch 1, 2013 at 6:50 AM
Holy crow - I love her grandsire! He looks like he would be a complicated yet rewarding ride! Her whole family is gorgeous and it makes me think that I might have to eventually rethink my "only OTTBs!" stance. They're all so well built!
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JessicaMarch 2, 2013 at 10:36 AM
Her grandsire is one impressive horse!
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Poetry Corner

Source
by Mark Doty

I'd been traveling all day, driving north
—smaller and smaller roads, clapboard houses
startled awake by the new green around them—

when I saw three horses in a fenced field
by the narrow highway's edge: white horses,

two uniformly snowy, the other speckled
as though he'd been rolling in flakes of rust.
They were of graduated sizes—small, medium,

large—and two stood to watch while the smallest
waded up to his knees in a shallow pond,

tossing his head and taking
—it seemed unmistakable—
delight in the cool water

around his hooves and ankles.
I kept on driving, I went into town

to visit the bookstores and the coffee bar
and looked at the new novels
and the volumes of poetry, but all the time

it was horses I was thinking of,
and when I drove back to find them,

the three companions left off
whatever it was they were playing at
and came nearer the wire fence—

I'd pulled over onto the grassy shoulder
of the highway—to see what I'd brought them.

Experience is an intact fruit,
core and flesh and rind of it; once cut open,
entered, it can't be the same, can it?

Though that is the dream of the poem:
as if we could look out

through that moment's blushed skin.
They wandered toward the fence.
The tallest turned toward me;

I was moved by the verticality of her face,
elongated reach from the tips of her ears

down to white eyelids and lashes,
the pink articulation
of nostrils, wind stirring the strands

of her mane a little to frame the gaze
in which she fixed me. She was the bold one;

the others stood at a slight distance
while she held me in her attention.
Put your tongue to the green-flecked peel

of it, reader, and taste it
from the inside: would you believe me
if I said that beneath them a clear channel

ran from the three horses to the place
they'd come from, the cool womb

of nothing, cave at the heart
of the world, deep and resilient and firmly set
at the core of things? Not emptiness,

not negation, but a generous, cold nothing:
the breathing space out of which new shoots

are propelled to the grazing mouths,
out of which the horses themselves are tendered
into the new light. The poem wants the impossible;

the poem wants a name for the kind nothing
at the core of time, out of which the foals

come tumbling: curled, fetal, dreaming,
and into which the old crumple, fetlock
and skull breaking like waves of foaming milk....

Cold, bracing nothing that mothers forth
mud and mint, hoof and clover, root hair

and horsehair and the accordion bones
of the rust-spotted little one unfolding itself
into the afternoon. You too: you flare

and fall back into the necessary
open space. What could be better than that?

It was the beginning of May,
the black earth nearly steaming,
and a scatter of petals decked the mud

like pearls, everything warm with setting out,
and you could see beneath their hooves
the path they'd traveled up, the horse road

on which they trot into the world, eager for pleasure
and sunlight, and down which they descend,

in good time, into the source of spring.