I’m often grateful that I work late hours, because it means that I have most weekday evenings with the barn (and arena) to myself. The peace and quiet of the farm at nighttime is great for a meditative stall cleaning or a stream-of-consciousness grumble about my no-stirrup struggles.

There are nights, however, when my running narrative turns in the direction of four-letter words. I do own a mare, after all, and I maintain that I am just mirroring her language.

“You aren’t keeping your hands consistent, and I don’t appreciate it.”