Twin flame…

The breeze fell to nothing,

and the water became as polished as a smooth slate…

The only sounds were the suck and slap of wavelets,

and a duck nibbling seaweed in the shallows…

The sun sunk lower…

The duck spread its wings and flew off…

Dusk came on— although as it was the middle of the Moon of No Dark,

night would be merely a brief interval of deep blue twilight…

Still Torak waited…

— in Spirit Walker by Michelle Paver

The other evening,

as Starshine,

Little Gem,

and I made our way,

along the seawall,

through a twist of sun,

and misty rainfall,

a double rainbow filled,

the eastward sky…

The streets were deserted,

as a stadium filled itself,

with baited breath,

and towel power…

Minutes after seven p.m.,

Pacific Standard Time,

cheers rang out,

of condominiums,

along False Creek,

and we knew,

that justice,

was being served,

with the slam of a gavel…

It wasn’t until three,

and one half hours later,

that we learned,

it was Alexandre Burrows,

who put his signature,

to the paperwork,

with the guiding hand,

of his buddy,

Luc Bourdon,

and friends,

in over time…

Those one hundred,

and twenty minutes,

we sat across the water,

from the Rog,

under the big top,

were full of acrobatics,

and 49 spirited,

male horses…

If one woman,

has the nerve,

to cycle seven,

white Arab chargers,

around the ring,

with body language,

just imagine,

what another can do,

from a distance,

with not a scroll down,

on an IPhone,

but the twitch,

of an eye…

Yesterday,

I topped up the water,

for all of those horses,

who were spending,

the night,

in the stars…

And as I stood,

at centre paddock,

flooded with afternoon sun,

waiting for pressure,

to draw up,

from the well,

and spill into,

the barrels,

I put my hands up,

and surrendered…