There is a dark quiet in the mind of horses
that makes you wonder who's directing whom;
Whose voices filter through a thousand clouds of exhaled breath,
whose heavy imprint leaves a thousand telltale marks
from here to the pasture,
in a line not perfectly straight,
but rather slightly curved,
as might be the path of an explorer
too accustomed to a stall's straight lines.

There is a dark quiet in the mind of the rider
as the observing of the creature
and the riding of it
become indistinguishable;
Until the ten shifting directions of the creature's gait
seem the natural style of locomotion,
and the rolling, roaring sameness of factory wheels
seem an abomination.

There is a dark quiet in the mind of the passerby
watching the pair as he leans against the white fence
wondering aloud whether the rider
can distinguish her favorite
through observation alone.