You are right to be wary of us,
Little Mare. Your hooded eyes
dark and silent, you must be
concerned, yet your brows are
smooth. Not even a natural breeze
in your tail, still to your bones.
You betray nothing, no fear or
warmth. It’s easy to imagine you,
foal by your side, moving by day
over hard land. Surviving by
listening to your inner ancestors.
You’re right to keep their counsel.
This is complicated terrain, we’re
predators who ask you to surrender
those instincts. To rein in your
wildness enough to share our life,
enough that we might find a lost
part of our own nature in yours.