When rustling bushes cause one colt to startle,
it ripples through the herd until they all stare,
eyes wide and nostrils blowing, at the dark woods beyond.
If one bolts, the rest will follow, wheeling
from the known danger to the unknown world,
even plummeting off cliffs in their blind panic.
Humans claim we would never be so irrational.
But I might want to be like them despite it all
because I watch how they greet each other
when five return from hours up on the high ridgeline.
How they dip their long necks over each other, circling,
with quiet whickers, accounting for all,
from the lead mare to the gelding
often cast to the outer rings.
How the daily dynamics dissolve.
How they stand, nose to nose, exchanging air
between their lungs, how they seem to say:
you’ve returned to us.
