The Ride

Tatiana is the lead horse.
He is compact and strong,
as he carries my sister through
the evening smells of Chaparral
and Pine, Hemlock and Sage.
We follow his dappled flanks
through the clearing meadows of
golden brush and bright red oak,
winding our way upward
toward the sunset ridge.

My sister points out the lighthouse
at Pigeon Point to the north of us,
winking through the trees; to the
south is Año Nuevo, with its slip
of island off the rocky shore, where
boats unloaded their Prohibition liquor
bound for the ramshackle cabins
visible in the gulch just below us.

“Did I tell you the story of Tatiana”?
she asks, turning in the saddle. “When
the Ohlone Elder pointed to him, he was
yellow and thin, his ribs poking through
his mottled hide”.

“See that horse?” he asked. “He is
your medicine and you are his. As he
heals so will you.”

Tatiana and my sister dance a
turning step as they lead us into a
darkening space of mossy pine, its heady
smells brushing over us like cobwebs.

“Watch your heads”, she calls to us.

We follow them through the dusky,
narrow ribbon of forest and out again
into the light of the setting sun.
Tatiana’s hooves pick their way
carefully down the steep incline into
the distant valley, and guide us home.



Michael Edwards Dorenzo
July 2004