Morning Orchestra

The conductor’s baton dropped as I stepped outside into the darkness of the February morning. The winter orchestra began the score with the distant rhythmic scrape of the shovel against the ice and snow and paved surface buried below. As I stepped into the snow the crust snapped with my weight and I sunk six inches into granular snow we watched fall outside the window all the previous day.

I stomped my way to the barn avoiding the partially plowed driveway now slick with ice and favored the snow-covered grass. My footfalls cut through the silence like a drumbeat in an auditorium. Letting the horses out, the metal doors push back the crust of ice like symbols crashing. The crescendo echoed off the distant ridge and tree line. As if the horses were reading the sheet music, they knew it was their turn. The morning music swirled and crashed as each of the horses jumped from their stalls like children into a snowy morning, hooves breaking the icy surface. Nothing could be heard above the footfalls, fast and rhythmic knees high, the two beats of the trot and then building to the three beats of the canter. Hooves crashing through the crust, ice sliding along the surface the music.