These are your horses. They hurt to watch, scarring the prairie as they do. The way they draw north or heed your call and cross the river, even when it is far too high.
See their heads jut just above the water? How quick the small ones drown. How tame they are as they tire. Their skins absolve you of their aches, being beautiful.
Their eyes rise and surge. They break as easily as men do, lacquered, blooming. Hearts full of anticipatory pastures.