Twenty years on the open range

Twenty years of running

Twenty years a stallion

Answering to no one

Now he is horse number 1202

Prowling a circular pen of steel

Moving lightly over the soft earth

Sniffing

Waiting

And moving again

Unbowed

He is forced to acknowledge

The man and woman

Inside the pen

Avoiding them perfectly

As he travels

Around and around

He looks through

The people crowded in the stands

The children pushing toy trucks on the packed ground

The square, white lunch truck standing in the back

He cares nothing for the flying flags

Or the video cameras

Or questions from the audience

Or for what’s missing

From between his legs
 

It is the horizon

That is what holds his attention

The meeting place of sky and earth

Is the only destiny

He has ever known

A gate opens

And he swings his magnificent, black body

Around to face it

Now he treads carefully out

Dancing on air

His wise head

Low for danger

His flowing tail arched

His monstrous neck

Rippling with power

In city traffic

I remember his eyes

So dark and wet

So full of God