The Horses

How could he know what lies beyond the twisted fence.
I caught him staring there, one day in November,
a statue, his wide eyes fixed on the nearby
field, the bare bones of the cottonwoods lining the
river, the angle of the sun
falling.

I imagine the sharp edge of the horizon must stand up
like a mystery, an annoying secret.
What could possibly exist beyond the hill.
What of the living things taking up root
behind that gnarled stand of trees.
The thorns of the metal fence keep him staring.
Forever
if they want.

Long ago his legs would have stretched
across the empty miles—carrying
food, water—muscles overlapping one
another, heart flaring at the eruption of
fresh grasses pounded
under hoof, and later,
at the distant idea
of rest.

These days we cage most things beautiful.
Inside four walls where nothing
can escape and never learn enough
to want to.

Does that make them ours?
Does that make him mine?
If he doesn’t belong to himself anymore—then who?
How does one decide what to own and more
importantly, when and why to own it?

I watch him, vacant in his stance,
maybe he only thinks about what horses think about.
Maybe he is content, simple, with the sun
on his back. But every so often
I see a leg twitch, a tendon, a
blink, an instant
when he is as he should be, as he
was born—wet and shiny,
a wilderness aching
in both eyes.

There is light there
nestled
like a soft stone.
There is a darkness settled in close
around the edges
but there
is
light.