Her blue eyes follow us from behind the dip
In the cascading hill of brown and green and red.
They say she’s a runner—
Fit with a halter that never comes of.
Her soft nose meets my hand,
Her feet prodding the back of my calves.
I slip against the grass and jog up the rocks
As she plows on—are you coming?
Bite warning and bad attitude—
She kicks her legs when I try to scrape her shoes.
Bending down, ripples of shiny skin across her neck,
To sniff today’s clothes with a soft nuzzle.
She drags me away from the outside world.
To the middle, from the chaos,
And runs and runs and runs.
But she is good to me against her reputation.
I am out of the saddle and in the air,
Hands in her mane and on her neck,
Hugging her broad shoulders once my boots slap the mud.
She’s a runner but so am I.
