When she turns,

he turns with her;

the horse she loves to ride.

 

He bends his hock and shows his hoof so willingly;

she picks the thick, dark prairie earth from his shoes

and circles the fur on his body with her palms and brush;

he tosses his head into the dying blue.

 

Soon, she will grip his withers

and tighten her thighs to his barrel

so that they can leave the people watching them—

 

the parents, the teachers, the stodgy calloused ladies

mucking the stall,

 

and sail unchecked towards either coast,

joining their imparity with each mile.