The horses are so enormous and traveling so fast that I can already feel the ground thrumming beneath my on-loan clodhopper-like work boots.

I scream over my shoulder toward Gretchen, “RUN TOWARD THE RIGHT AS FAST AS YOU CAN.” Remembering her topple the previous evening as she ran from the man with the scythe coming out of the barn, I add, “AND THIS TIME, DO NOT FALL!”

Something in the terror-filled pitch of my voice sends her streaking faster and more nimbly into the meadows to our right than I could ever have fathomed. She is many paces in front of me, and I had a head start.

We keep our arms in front of us like linebackers in the final moments of Super Bowl Sunday and navigate our way through what could very well be Joe Pie-Weed and patches of yarrow – flowers I remember Mrs. KT mentioning she’d seen during her visit to Bird-in-Hand, Pennsylvania. Right now, though, everything is simply a weedy, undecipherable jungle.

        Suddenly, we stop when the ground behind us is shaking so tremendously that it feels like an earthquake. We intuitively turn toward the ear-splitting waves and watch  Ezra’s behemoths steamroll by.

        Their ears are flattened, their nostrils are flaring, and their dinner-plate-sized hooves are pummeling the ground beneath them into an apocalyptic landscape of dirt geysers.

        Gretchen and I gape at each other.

        “How did you know to do that?” she asks.

        “Horses run in straight lines,” I say. “They’re not like bears or cougars. They wouldn’t chase us. But they’re so fast that getting out of their way in time was all that mattered.”

        Together, we try to slow our breathing.

        “Between those horses and that guy coming out of the barn yesterday afternoon with a scythe, you’ve become quite the impressive runner, Gretchen Hargis,” I say. “I was really proud of you for remaining vertical this time, though.”

        “Oh, yeah; you’re a freakin’ riot, Allen,” Gretchen says, still crouching with her hands on her knees and trying to stabilize both her breathing as well as her wits.

        “I bet those horses are already at the FanStory Convention,” I tell her, then silently cheer as, finally, my little Olympian laughs.

        “Yeah,” she adds, “And Steve Foreman’s wrestled both to the ground and is charging people to take rides on ‘em.” We both break into peals of laughter at the thought of our favorite No-Nonsense English military man and fearless African safari guide making short work of a pair of runaway equines. Amateur Hour!

        Just then, we hear a gut-wrenching scream.

        “Who’s that?” I ask.

        “It’s so high, it’s got to be Hannah,” says Gretchen.

        “Oy!” I gasp, and the two of us tear off in the direction of the wails.

        When we arrive, Ezra is writhing on the ground and moaning. Solomon is kneeling next to him, and Simeon is holding a bloody hoe and standing astride a decapitated black-and-brown variegated snake.

        Gretchen goes pale while I run into the nearby wildflower patch to toss my cookies.

        Between hurls, I can hear Helene hustling from the house and asking Solomon, “Was he bitten by the snake?”

        “No,” I hear Solomon answer. “The horse knocked him down after this timber rattler struck at it.”

        “TIMBER RATTLER?” I hear Gretchen scream. Then I hear her feet pound toward the house with the same kind of ferocity and abandon as Ezra’s draught horses.

        I manage to wobble my way back to the rest of the group as Rebekah gathers Hannah into her arms. “Your daede will be okay,” she tells her with an impressively perfect maternal coo.

        But Hannah can’t be consoled quite yet. “Daede, are you okay?” she asks between sobs.

        “Yes,” he says, though his voice is noticeably constricted. “Horses that size are powerful beasts. I just need a couple minutes, Hannah, but I’ll be fine.”

        Solomon and Simeon help him to his feet and lead him into the house. The rest of us file in behind them for breakfast, though I can’t imagine anyone having an appetite at this point.

        Amish life is so much more action-packed than anything I've ever experienced in humble little East Rochester, New York!