Yassen, Veso, and some horses. NW Rila mountains, Bulgaria.

Sometimes I want to be a child again. That first me – mostly instinct, there to play and play, full of life and promise and that feeling it will never end, of immortality in hand, his little hand that’s not my hand, but I remember.

If not a child today, then we can try another way, through the flow of here and now, the flow with nature, our partner in this dance of shapes and forms and whims, so we try to keep in step with her, riding her terrain as best we can, gliding over peak and ridge and col and valleys wide and thin, and improvising as we go, but staying high, high in the saddle, because the horses watch us – we must not disappoint. “Hey, friends!” I shout, to these horses and these wild goats and these mountain sheep and even tourists that we meet up here. A shout, a smile. And we are happy, me and Veso. May the sun prolong this afternoon and go from west to east and back again but not come down and take us with him. We’re mountain, man, and animal – in harmony. Why add anything more but an ending to remind myself and you why we do this. Because, my friend, it’s beautiful, and beauty, in all her apparitions, is still the most high.