The black mare with the white diamond lets me
bump foreheads with her across the fence,
Then we’re at a loss. I was lonely the whole
afternoon. All day her girl didn’t come
to ride. In this field big enough for a dozen,
she’s the single horse. I tell her she’s pretty.
She lightly sniffs my new shirt. That’s it–we’re
at the end of what can transpire between an old man
and a young horse who’ve just met. I say goodbye,
wave as I would to my sister if I had one, then
walk down my side of the fence line. She waits
a long moment, then trots, catches up, and will
pass me except that sixty-eight years old I know
from third grade a race when I’m in one, by golly
I’m with her five strides, seven, ten! Then, well —
I let her win. She and I both know what’s right.