Fresh off the ferry, we move inland from the dreamy
blue haze of the ocean, looking for the wild

horses who stand in valleys of cordgrass, pocketed
away from the relentless scour of windblown sand.

Some are bone-thin with the gaunt hips of cattle.
Others’ bellies hang expectantly, taught and round

beneath shining coats. Every mane is thick and coarse,
tangled by the salt air. From the top of a dune, we spy

one small band – just a mare and her foal flanked
by a striking young stud. We stop to watch from a distance,

but the stallion pauses his grazing, looks up, and begins
to approach. For an instant we scramble

backward, thinking we’ve come too close
to the baby, but he bobs his head, walks with the loose

swing of relaxation, eyes bright and curious, ears pricked
forward like a friendly dog. Then he stops and stares

at the sea as if to pose, offering a partial profile, so I snap
his photo – a perfect gentleman, his flaxen hair flying feral.