At work in the studio, we hear a child screaming outside. My friend runs to her son, and I hear her ask why he is screaming.
The horses are running. We hurry down the driveway to look at them, me in my slippers.
“Góðan daginn,” the man leading them calls to us. I call back, “Góðan daginn!” He says something in Icelandic, probably, “Don’t try to touch them.”
“They are beautiful,” I call out.
This is a regular sight here, the movement of horses from one pasture to another. They move like a gym class, with the athletes up front and the reluctant joggers at the back. In front of me one horse decides he’s had enough and slows to a walk. I think they are doing the tölt, a fast and smooth trot unique to Icelandic horses.
I must ride.