I ride Vencedora
the first time
since she lost her baby.
My hand caresses her neck,
ignites memories:
midnight visits—
     my hand on her flank
     feeling little kicks,
my moan when I found the stillborn colt—
     how light he was,
     how soft,
     where I buried him.

It's barely June; it rained
last night. A damp
honeysuckle smell
enfolds us; we plunge
under shade,
surface in the sun
at the top of a hill.
She quickens as we near
the edge of a large meadow,
dive into a grass sea.
Her nose brushes its waves.
To push through
she has to lift her hooves,
slow a bit.
My legs are soaked with her sweat.
As we plow through the ripe prairie,
furry seed heads explode into the air,
stick to her chest, belly, my legs, arms.

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