I turn and kneel in front of my wings placing my hands on the red dirt pushing my palms deeper into the dust, making circles, feeling the warm, grit of the red clay dirt. I grab handfuls, stood and spun around releasing an arc of dirt around me and with the remaining dusting of red wiping it down my face and onto the back of my neck. I pick up the wings and like a cowgirl twirl them overhead like a lasso. I slide my right arm and then the left into the other wing sleeve. I wrap myself in them and begin again to do the dance of nesting to flight that I have done hundreds of times all over the world, but never in a mustang corral. Feeling the unbridled nature that I witnessed before. Feeling the hundreds of ways that I feel fenced in, the ways in which I fence myself in, deny, punish, and get in my own way and the thousands of ways I push against those voices within, I push back with joy, and unabashed love for myself and other to rise again. And my dance is wild now. I’m working the wings against the natural movements of flight. I am a bird who is a woman inspired by a Mustang reaching for new ways of moving in front of an audience engaging the red dirt and the heavenly sky as collaborators. Speaking to the wind asking for its witness and cooperation. Articulating these wings with my very own flesh and bones and heart and wisdom. I called out to my mother earlier while standing on the mound while the mustangs galloped around us. I said to my mother and at the same time the Great Mother, “Momma send me the horse that carries my medicine.” And she did and that horses name is Mist. And that horses name is Me. .
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