Sometimes the problem of writing is, for me, not having seen enough. Why not the problem of not having heard or not having felt? There are senses that have not been invented yet. This morning: a mandoline drying in a dish rack; a rain shower; an open-plan bird house made up of slates; a frontal-view photograph of a horse’s incisors.
I get lost circling the same small pond. Finally, I find grasses that are brushed down by wind and the pressure of steps; the path itself tramples back.
Surely there are equestrian star formations, but I can’t remember any, certainly not the winged-horse, Pegasus, which only occurs to me later. Warriors, in armor, come readily, as do female bears, chairs, measuring cups, lesser dogs, and lesser lions.
To relieve an unconscious horse from a stroke of lightening, give the patient strong tea or coffee. As the coffee already made tasted too weak, I boil new coffee. I keep a close watch so it does not spout over into liquid burns the shapes of tree branches.
Why should thoughtful medical notes on horse care not be as relevant as anything else? A friend, years ago, confessed she reads most philosophy like self-help.