A Morning at the Icelandic Horse Farm

As dawn split the volcanic horizon, I wandered into a mist-wreathed horse farm in southern Iceland, where the air stung with the tang of geothermal steam and the earthy scent of moss-covered lava. Sunlight poured over shaggy Icelandic horses, their coats shimmering like obsidian in the first light—some stamped hooves on frosty ground, others nuzzled each other, manes tangled with morning mist. A farmer in a woolen sweater knelt to fasten a bell around a foal’s neck, its chime echoing over the black sand fields.
Near the stable, a teenager groomed a chestnut mare, her hands combing through the horse’s thick winter coat. "They’re born to survive the dark," she said, pointing to a horse pawing at snow to reach grass. I watched as a stallion tossed its head, mane flying like a raven’s wing, while a family of ptarmigans scurried past, their white feathers blending with the snow. Somewhere in the distance, a geyser erupted, its spray catching the sun to form a fleeting rainbow over the stark landscape.
The farmer handed me a lump of sugar, which a gray mare lipped from my palm. "Feel their warmth—they carry summer in their blood," he smiled, rubbing the horse’s flank. Sunlight strengthened, gilding the edges of nearby glaciers that loomed like silent giants.
By mid-morning, the farm hummed with activity: riders saddled horses for treks, a veterinarian checked hooves, and children laughed as they fed carrots to curious foals. I left with horsehair on my coat, reminded that in Iceland, mornings wake in the steam of geysers and the steady thump of hooves—where every horse is a survivor, and every breath of frigid air holds the wild, untamed spirit of the north.

Popular posts from this blog

I walk past our old corner café, and my feet stop on their own. The sign still says “Open 7 AM,” just like it did when we’d meet here every Saturday, you with your black coffee, me with chai. I can almost see you through the window, grinning as you’d steal a sip of my drink. The barista recognizes me, asks if I want “the usual.” I shake my head, throat tight. Some places hold too much—too many smiles, too many “see you tomorrows” that turned into “goodbyes.” I keep walking, but my heart lingers, tracing the cracks in the sidewalk where we used to stand.

I walk past our old corner café, and my feet stop on their own. The sign still says “Open 7 AM,” just like it did when we’d meet here every Saturday, you with your black coffee, me with chai. I can almost see you through the window, grinning as you’d steal a sip of my drink. The barista recognizes me, asks if I want “the usual.” I shake my head, throat tight. Some places hold too much—too many smiles, too many “see you tomorrows” that turned into “goodbyes.” I keep walking, but my heart lingers, tracing the cracks in the sidewalk where we used to stand.
Read more

A Morning at the Mountain Observatory

As dawn broke over the ridgeline, I climbed the stone steps to the mountain observatory, where the air was crisp and smelled of pine resin and distant campfires. The observatory’s metal dome loomed against the pale sky, its weathered panels dewed with mist. A lone astronomer adjusted the telescope, his breath fogging the cold metal as he whispered, “Wait for the first star to fade.” Inside the circular chamber, constellation maps glowed under dim red lights, their ancient patterns painted on the domed ceiling. I ran my fingers over a brass armillary sphere, its rings etched with zodiac signs, while a graduate student calibrated a digital spectrometer, explaining how it measured starlight. Near the window, a hiker sipped coffee from a thermos, watching the Milky Way dissolve into the morning’s blue. Sunlight spilled through the observatory’s open slit, casting a golden beam over the telescope’s lens. The astronomer pointed to a faint smudge in the sky. “That’s the Andromeda Galaxy,” he ...
Read more

A Morning at the Mexican Street Food Market

As dawn painted the plaza in soft coral, I wandered into a bustling Mexican street food market, where the air hummed with the sizzle of chorizo and the earthy scent of roasted chilies. Sunlight filtered through papel picado banners, casting diamond-shaped shadows over stalls draped in vibrant serapes. A vendor in a straw sombrero flipped tortillas on a scorching comal, their doughy aroma mixing with the sweet tang of pineapple grilling for al pastor. Near the tamale stand, an abuela wrapped masa in banana leaves, her nimble fingers tucking in shreds of pork before tying each parcel with twine. "Las mañanas son para saborear," she smiled, handing me a warm tamale. I peeled back the leaf to reveal steamy corn dough dotted with green chiles, its flavor melting on my tongue. A mariachi band tuned their trumpets nearby, their brass instruments glinting in the sun as a stray dog begged for scraps under a taco cart. Sunlight grew stronger, warming the cobblestones where children cha...
Read more