Walking

What is this heroic gait
in the indoor riding ring, that it can be prized by
kings, and can make a young girl feel like Joan of Arc,

and even her father, waiting
in a hot, airless viewing room, can seem charmed by
the art of one hoof on the ground at a time,

and the handsome gelding, which pays
for its keep by carrying the stable’s academy riders, can
seem to calm all tensions as soon as the lesson begins,

because his neck is so gracefully arched, because his head
is up and ears are forward, because his strong, level
back and well-sprung ribs inspire all who see him—

especially the young rider, with her weight shifting
in the saddle to let the horse know she is ready to
move from a rhythmic four-beat trot into an easy amble,

her trainer who offers the bait to the circling horse, in and out
of cathedral shafts of dusty barn light, her father who
doesn’t speak the language of the horse,

but wants to believe the horse can speak words of love
to his daughter. How does her father look away from the magic
ring to witness Mexican hired hands carrying bags of feed,

mucking out stalls, curry-combing horses
in the barn’s breezeway. How does he work out in his heart the
dead horse he has been riding, whipping harder,

denying he could ever have ridden it
into the ground, when all he can do now is simply
dismount. In the ring, the horse has no hidden agenda,

no misplaced anger, because there is no self-deception
or scission the rider doesn’t make, their atonement affirmed as
each foot meets the ground at equal, separate intervals,

until they all will feel that no matter
how beautiful the ride, much of life is
about walking around.