Before me, horses and riders move slowly through thick grass and shallow mud, side by side. They stretch out as far as I can see, into the wood beyond.
Behind me, the snuffle and and hoof steps, occasional shake of the head, accompanied by a jingle of tack of silent horses and riders.
Far off in the distance, hounds sing.
Marksman Millie and I occupy the middle, plodding along peacefully, absorbing the beauty of a Virginia autumn, with its attendant colors and scents.
Suddenly, somewhere above, psssshhht, whoosh, *floaty sound*. I look up to see two gaily colored hot air balloons drifting above us. Champagne at the ready for a celebratory landing.
It occurs to me that they above and we below are each part of a tableau of memory.