I lose undefined periods of time trying to lace up a pair of shoes; thinking of shoes; generally shoeing myself so that I might stand comfortably for many hours. Standing on two legs: a fragile ability, granted by evolution. Not comfortable: the dream in which I slip and fall in the shower. This dream recurs during illness.
Actually, I am not sad. I am also less frightened now by photographs of dead or soon to be dead horses, though I descend from ancestors who were frightened and skittish, understandably so. The walk across disappearing land-bridges was no doubt icy and scary. Disabling, even.
Horses appear on the first page of a poetry book I select at random, albeit from a curated stack. They are running so fast they forget they are horses. I am writing this fast so I might outrun my own embellishments.
Evening is a pastoral scene; golden clouds, golden trees, a homestead in a clearing.
Something to do with looseness, the capture of looseness. The capture of nothing too tightly? The ill-fit? I search the index for ropes, reins, straps, wraps, corrals; find nothing. I know I won’t find mind but I search for it anyway.