Horseshoe prints baked into mud
in two directions, one hoof forward,
another backward, wondering
if birds, plants, trees, can feel my rhythm
stepping along the trail,
a sense of relief as though I am more
careful in the way I place one foot
in front of the other, not owning
the road in the same way, more willing
to share it with an occasional lizard
darting between rocks, and greeting others
where before there was only
a quickening to save myself
the embarrassment of saying hello.
I ponder these things as I hear a horse neigh
and consider its significance,
but think of a movie where a boy asks
his father to teach him how to ride, and the man
responds with his own question,
just because there are horses, why
does someone have to ride them? And a book
of folk tales that lies open on my table, a story
where a boy does not wish
to marry a princess, but chooses
to return home, and just about then a coyote
pokes his head from a sea of wild radish and quaking oats,
and less afraid than I am startled,
I want him to wait,
to cross a boundary with me for just one moment.