sore.

To be brief,

I am sore when I wake up.
I am sore while the ponies eat.
I am sore while I eat.
I am sore when I tack up.
I am sore as I untack.
I am sore standing on the mounting block.
I am sore walking and trotting and cantering my precise circles and eloquent patterns.
I am sore when my horses are naughty.
I am sore when my horses are amazing.

Last horse of the day, I peel myself from my saddle, tan breeches black from the leather. I grunt as I walk bow-legged to our crossties. I moan as I pull off the bridle and saddle, tear off my boots.

Boss Mare walks to her stool and perches.

"When will I not be sore?"
"When you stop riding."

She smiles because we both know that will never happen.