Scrunching her mane ‘twixt my fingers
I scrub away every small care
Lifting the layers of mud, dust, and dirt
Taking stress out on her hair.
Nickers so softly invade reverie
She lips at my pocket and stares
Her certainty of what lay inside
Wipes away all other cares.
Her marble-still stance, with ears perked and ready
so perfect and pretty and fine
I can’t hold anything back from this horse
My heart, and the treat, are not mine.