I see it still,
there was once . . .
a new horse in the pasture,
a tall, slim being—a neighbor was keeping her there—
and she put her face against my face,
put her muzzle, her nostrils, soft as violets,
against my mouth and my nose, and breathed me,
to see who I was,
a long quiet minute—minutes—
then she stamped feet and whisked tail
and danced deliciously into the grass away,
and came back,
she was saying, so plainly, that I was good,
or good enough.
by Mary Oliver excerpted from “The Poet Goes to Indiana”
photo by Sandra Wallin of Chiron’s Way