The horses sleep lying down, legs twitching, mouths wrapped around blades of green grass. The flies are attracted to their moist, flickering eyes. I'm as close as I can focus, examining their faces, tails, hooves and bellies, bewitched by the sensuality of horse and place.

I am in a meadow high in the Sierra Nevada. Channels of the San Joaquin River braid through the thick, lush grass. I take off my shoes and socks, roll up my pants and wade through the shallow water to where the horses are now eating. They trace a pattern, mysterious to me, around and around the meadow, eating, drinking and sleeping.

Late in the afternoon, the horses abruptly leave the meadow in a single line. I race after them through a swamp of thick mud and dead trees and branches which scratch my arms. They trot and canter, moving faster than they've moved all day. I can't catch up to them. When I reach the edge of the main river bank, I see the last of the horses cautiously step into the deep, swift moving water, and slowly float to the other side.