Lessons at Dead Broke Farm Sweaty flannels, riding trails, Dale’s shoulders rising and falling in time with his horse. I learned to pull hard on leather reins, prod my heels into ribs. On the last day, Dale made me help him brush his gelding—a wall of flickering muscle. He could tell I was nervous, so he led my hand to the horse’s flank. The beast was nervous too, twitching under the brush. It’s alright, Dale said, pulling a carrot from his back pocket, which the horse took between his teeth. I was still brushing, wisps of hair writhing in stripes of light. That’s good, Dale said. I wasn’t sure if…