WILDLY KIND x ANIMAL INSTINCT
I hear three clocks ticking almost in time, like echoing metronomes. Every so often they fall into sync. Perfect unison. Then they click out of rhythm, only rarely aligning again. All day long I wait for the syncing of the three clocks.
The door is open six inches. Warm inside air meets the cold outside and diffuses into it, like osmosis. Outside, a rooster cock-a-doodle-doos. I trust it more than the ticking of the clocks.
There’s the hush of before—the stillness of dawn before the world starts buzzing. The ground is wet with rain, but the sun has returned. The earth reflects the sky like a portal. Puddles of clouds being licked by kittens.
I jump in one in case it’s a portal. Darn. It’s not. The splash startles the kittens. They scatter back to their calm places, then reappear at a barn window to watch the spectacle of my morning. Curious but cautious. Their eyes widen like saucers, necks lengthening and bending.
They crouch behind the hay, lion-like, preparing to pounce. They make themselves small, hidden, waiting. Their hind legs shuffle their weight ever so slightly. Then stillness. Their eyes track. Without warning, one leaps onto another bale of hay and they begin to play.
No one taught them this posture or play. Born instinct.
I separate the hissing hairballs. One goes into the pocket of my overalls, the other into my coat pocket, their heads and paws peeking above the seams. Perfect pocket passengers.
I do my morning chores more tenderly today. I fall into a rhythm of purpose I never stopped to notice before. I scatter corn for the chickens, milk the cow, give the kittens a taste, put the bottles away. Then it’s my favorite time of day.
I unlatch the lock. Gates open. Warm breath meets cold air.
I place my palm face up. He sniffs for trust. He notices the kittens and sniffs them too. Nose to nose they meet and, without words, agree on something. I don’t know what.
A tiny kitten sneeze startles him back. Then he runs. The rhythm feels like thunder. I place the kittens on the fence for safety, to watch or to wait—I don’t know which.
He circles, breathing hard, hooves pounding the ground. No bridle. No saddle. No reins. He bucks, restless. I walk toward him gently, calmly. He keeps running circles around me, but now our eyes are locked. His pace slows to a stop.
I approach with irrational courage and the earned knowledge that our presence calms each other. His breathing slows to match mine. My hand finds his chin, then his head, neck, shoulders. I pull a tuft of his hair, lift myself onto him, his back warms beneath my palms and we ride in a circular rhythm.
Hooves, heartbeat, breath—the only things that matter.
The three clocks tick in time.
ABI BEAUX 