It is the wind, I tell her, see how it tosses the oak’s branches and flattens the tall grasses?
But in that moment I relive years of scanning edges, trunks of trees, slip, glint of scope. A chamber of my mind devoted itself to survey, to watchdogs, to undulled horses: instinct and sense. And I remember a dream, her father dead on a gurney in Georgia begins to stir until he is fully alive, on his feet, moving.
The dead walk among us, I told my husband, the dreamer. We need to find a good ancestor who can take care of this bad one. We have to go far back before linear thinking.
When she got to us she was a marked kid. Her mark became our mark. Now her father is dead. In the wind the white horse paws a hillock. My kid turns to go inside, back to the smell of minestrone.
I scan the field with its moving shadows. It is the wind, I tell the horse. It really is the wind.