Soft is a warm bed and thick comforter after a long day, the muzzle on a horse just below and between his nostrils, a place to fall that is protected and maybe sacred, a loose pile of hay, the pre-dawn sky, finely sanded wood, footprints on a damp trail, the whisper of a newborn baby’s breath as they quiet in loving arms.

Hard is the ground you hit when you get bucked off your horse, the silence of two people sharing a space but not the path, the wind-driven bits of hay that stick in your eyes, the steep rock-filled trail leading up to the mountain’s saddle, the long cry of hunger or wail of longing that cannot be silenced by any amount of walking or rocking, the edge of a darkness filled with fear unknown, the line that will not be crossed.