turns a prickly burr under the saddle;
sometimes sweat soaking your mane, my hands swept
up in its lather; sometimes my prattle
as you whinny to it, honest thoughts kept
deep beneath your forelock; your stifle flexed
sometimes, tensely awaiting slightest touch;
your loin wincing, rising as if perplexed
when I pat your back; sometimes your gait’s such
I must whisper “whoa,” or sometimes yell it;
pay attention to your superior
eyes, read their gaze, gauge the reins and tell it’s
our exact moment to let go, no spur
or request required as you gallop, thrill
filling us both as we charge the far hill.
Roger Armbrust
November 17, 2009
