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Yesterday, I stroked a horse:
I ran my hand along his back
And watched his every muscle twitch,

So sensitive—what a proud and
Ceremonious beast. He held his head
Lightly—comfortable, with no fear—
And his ears tipped gently forward,

Relaxed. They flicked around at every
Sound, but the horse was not tense.

He rested his weight equally along
All four of his strong yet delicate legs—
So slender you thought you could snap them

Like a twig. But this tall and respected creature
Could run at thirty miles-per-hour on
These legs of his. His kick could kill,
If it had that desired intention. But this horse,

So powerful in all its creation, stood
By my side—unflinching; unmoving:

It made its choice to allow my presence—
To allow my every touch of his body.

I rubbed his nose, and his dark eyes locked
With mine. They told a story, certainly:
He could remember his whole life.

Perhaps, even, he could see mine, but
It looked as though he could see even further
Than just the past and the present.

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