Young mare, on the full-moon night you
were born, we recognized one another.
It was an awkward kinship of un-belonging,
both of us being more like the other
than either of us were like our mothers.
No baby talk or embraces, we each stood
squarely as equals, never anyone’s little
anything. You were a coppery redhead, eyes
ringed with white like a reverse raccoon,
your body followed suit; gray before the
season changed. I took to silver before
my time, too. It isn’t as flattering in my
world but it’s not our way to contritely
bow our heads or apologize for our
nature. Last night, not thinking, I brought
the geldings in before you. With a
sharp angle to your brow, you blurted
out a snort as vehement as a sonic boom.
The arc of your neck outraged, your
furious hooves took flight, barely able
to reach the ground, galloping one
churning circle after another. You’re
right. So, I waited at the gate. The
geldings don’t respect you yet, but I do.
I’ll hold this space for you, as mares
have done for me. On this day, I’m
humbled by your metallic strength and
raw pride, never a heartbeat less than who
you are meant to be. We both stride this
earth but mares take the light and prance.