Tearing at us flat out, ears pinned back,
shoulders like pistons punctuating air — first
I thought dog, but one
look at the paws, their width
slapping gravel, hinged to spindly
legs and knew —
spooked, sprinting mid-road toward town.
We pulled the van over and let him pass.
Saw his head bob up, mid-run, to catch
glimpses of barbed fence over the flags
of ditch cabbage. Split
from the pack, hemmed in,
those slit eyes fiercely empty.
He had strayed down onto low ground;
the gasoline and plush, casual
smell of plowed land. Now scanning
the roadsides for a way
out of the valley, to aged
slopes where lichen-hooded
granite cracks loam, trees thin
to wisps, and shreds of winter slide
slow from the tips
of the earth.
I turned in my seat to watch
the blur of hind legs and began
to imagine him collared, tagged,
a noticeable cower in the hang
of his head, pacing a paddock with
some farmer’s roan.
Learning to canter —
and next year be groomed.