In the Eye of a Horse

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.