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Find a pasture where an old horse grazes.
Open the gate and walk to a far corner of the field,
lie down in the weeds. Let your skin go hot then cold.
The horse will eye you warily, he might even run
the other way. Don't look at him.
Just lie there like a corpse
waiting for the dirt to be thrown.
When you begin to itch and your hair feels alive,
sit up and cross your legs. Keep your head down.
Study the crosshatch of grass beside your ankle,
the tiny black bugs that float and land
on your hands. When you do glance up
the horse will be standing like a statue,
neck raised, ears pricked.
Don't move or call to him. Simply sense
the curve of his haunches, the sturdy plant
of his hooves. Take the carrot from your pocket,
caress its damp shape. Snap it in two
if you want. The horse, a hesitant, eager
bundle of muscle, will step
forward and stop. Step forward and stop.
You will see that this is your life.
If you wait there long enough,
his long nose and thick barrel will approach.
He will wipe your hand clean with his tongue.
He will drink long from the bucket of water
beside you, then tickle your face
with the wiry hair of his muzzle, leaving
patches of drool on your shirt,
sticky and wet as tears.
When you make a sudden move
he will shy sideways, the crest of his mane
rising. He will turn and run, flinging gravel
and dirt behind him. Don't watch.
You will feel nothing but the rumble of earth
and the wind of his leaving. Tomorrow,
the horse will be small on the horizon,
the pasture where you sit, empty and wide.
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