Her hay-whisking and heave-sighing
inside the musty shade of stable walls
I rejoice in.
That, and the push of her warm-skinned flank
against me.
Dressing down the proud of her straight cannon bone
is something delightful.
That, and the pulling of her dry, wax mane.
That, and the sound of her dull, straw-thudding hooves,
of her weight-shifting listlessness.
That, and the dust-cloud rising from her quarters
as if from an old sofa.
That, and the ripple and shine of neck and shoulder
brushed over and over again.
How could I tire of feeling
the moleskin muzzle
hoovering my palms.
How could I tire of the thickly-lashed eyes
and skew-whiff star between.
How could I tire of that, and the assurance
of a thing never changing-
though I know it must.
