Bonnie

A heavy forelock falls like bangs over her glassy eyes Hoofs, hard and smooth, would fit a tea cup’s viscera Suspiciously, she stretches forward to observe The soft whiskers on her muzzle quiver She is ready to run in a moment In a flash, she would kick those dainty feet to the sky She scorns the world Neck arched proudly and feet tripping lightly Her mane cascades in roughly twisted coils Her coat is smoothly white with black patches rimmed in gray Like the outlines of islands on a topical map On her wide flank, a pink scar cuts the white A war wound from long ago A wound that brought her back to the barn and to civilization She is proud of the wound and proud of the black in her coat She is no shining saint to be praised for holiness She turns her broad back to those she chooses to forget But to the few who have gained her approval Through patient strokes and winning words She reaches her velvet lips and nickers softly in greeting Before whirling away in a cloud of dust and ladies’ hoofs