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Dark Horse
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This moonlit night we’ve come upon a horse—
his equine profile looms above barbed wire,
so close we might have touched him accidentally
as we pass along this country road
on foot, our flashlights small moons flicking off.
We don’t want to startle him: he’s still,
and we can’t see his eyes—is he asleep,
awake and watching us, or in the grip
of dread? He might be dangerous at night.
By day, he’s chestnut-brown, but now, he’s shadow,
eyes invisible, mane moonlight-tinged,
the hills behind him dim, vertiginous
with all the history his kind have known
entwined with ours, each day and every darkness.
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his equine profile looms above barbed wire,
so close we might have touched him accidentally
as we pass along this country road
on foot, our flashlights small moons flicking off.
We don’t want to startle him: he’s still,
and we can’t see his eyes—is he asleep,
awake and watching us, or in the grip
of dread? He might be dangerous at night.
By day, he’s chestnut-brown, but now, he’s shadow,
eyes invisible, mane moonlight-tinged,
the hills behind him dim, vertiginous
with all the history his kind have known
entwined with ours, each day and every darkness.