Its one of those icy, biting mornings.
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The sun scarcely manages to break through the heavy gray clouds.
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The air is crisp and dry, and the wind slips beneath my clothes.
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The North wind whips the grass that sticks to my boots. I walk into the stable and swing open the wooden tack room doors, freeing the burning scent of leather, wood, amber and honey. Its age
- old odor stands out sharply in the frozen morning air.
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My horse whinnies softly. Its the smell of her freedom.
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The leather gathers in the wind, the grass warms with the wood.
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Irish Leather gallops off into the horizon.
