(after Alistair MacLeod)
Made to travel on her own
she will trash the box, utter a cold sweat.
For her, knowledge is merely hope,
her head over the door.
A swallow travels on her back
in the summer, scissoring your path
as you stride down off the hill.
Horse heeds the hand she trusts,
will follow anywhere.
Horse foaled before you had her,
knows what it is to child-bear,
though horses will drive their own young off,
after a time, mares as well as males.
The home of horse resides in you:
you love her more, even,
than you might love a child,
her own love being blinder.
You arked this flood together.
Horse must never be betrayed.