Nostrils relaxed and round.
Tail loose and freely singing.
Lip line curled down.
Front leg gently swinging.
Like a child,
losing track of time,
drawing in the dirt,
pawing at the ground,
she bends gracefully toward a song,
a melody strummed with strings
of spring’s floral sound.
This is how horses smile.
Ancient blood coursing
through equine veins.
Images thundering across Arabian plains.
No matter the pace,
a walk,
a trot,
a canter
a race,
a stallion carries a soldier into battle,
a warhorse bred to turn the tide
of war,
muddied in the trenches,
picking neither side
nor sword
nor sultan to sit on its saddle.
The calvaries of the Persians,
Greeks,
Romans
and Mongols
depended on four-legged muscle
with fast response time,
highly perceptive for survival.
For the bulk of history,
the wealth of men
was measured in horses:
the stronger the beast,
the better the man,
the mightier the victory.
From the beginning,
even the gods revered horses.
The gods of the four winds
took their shape,
drawing Zeus’s golden chariot
from Mount Olympus’s gates.
This is her legacy,
running free,
nostrils flaring,
smoke billowing,
mane swirling in the wind,
hooves hammering rock,
engineering sparks of electricity.
Now, she grazes fields
and picks flowers
that jiggle a star.
This is true power
not just of mares
and sires
but all sentient creatures
lived,
loved,
bled,
and retired,
connecting anything
to everything miniscule
and majestic,
close and far,
to be admired
and mutually respected.