IRISH LEATHER

It's one of those icy, biting mornings. The sun scarcely manages to break through the heavy grey clouds. The air is crisp and dry, and the wind slips beneath my clothes. The Northwind whips the grass that sticks to my boots. I walk into the stable and swing open the wooden tack room doors. Its age-old odor stands out sharply in the frozen morning air. My horse whinnies softly. It's the smell of her freedom.