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52 Clip Clop Clip. It was that time of year when humidity hangs visible. MidAugust brings either torrential devastating rains or the scourge of Helios wrapped in static air. Clop. But it was that time of day and in that kind of area where vegetation bathed in half light smells fresh and even the height of summer becomes pleasantly livable. Clip. It was five o’clock in the morning and we were driving down the gently winding gently undulating trunk road past Water Tower University. Clip clop. The plane had been delayed three times from eight o’clock that evening and was due to take off at last at seven o’clock that morning. Clip clop. We had the road to ourselves. Clip clop, clip clop, clipclop, clipclop. The sound of horse’s hooves ringing on macadam became clearly audible and began weaving a complex pattern. It steadily increased as if approaching. The pace was perfectly even, perfectly regular, one complex activity of steady progression. Then it came into sight. One solitary horse, rich chestnut brown, muscles gleaming, was coming towards us in a mechanically steady trot, meticulously following the white line in the middle of the road, oblivious of us, or of anything. It followed the white line as it came out of the bend, it followed the white line as we passed each other, it followed the white line past us, never deviating, never changing its pace. The intricate sound pattern began to fade in stages into the distance and then was heard no more. Unharnessed. Cameoed. ...

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