he was a Tennessee Walker,
seventeen hands,
spirited and strong

he was my horse
as anyone else 
who tried to saddle him

he would meet me at the fence
as the sun rose behind him
and offer his face
to my hands

the light of the orange sun
me squinting in the light
i felt him with my hands
and rested my cheek on his nose

after we talked a bit about the 
work for the day, i would rise
up on my tiptoes and whisper 
in his ear

run, Kings Mountain, run

he would whinny and turn
away from me
and gallop toward
the yellowing star

the sound of his hooves in the grass
matching the beat in my breast
as i imagined myself
running with such abandon

the world, it seemed to me,
bowed before this horse
making room for his dignity
yielding to his will

no apologies
no explanation
only this horse
and me
and this moment
we were free