She Met Herself in the Stable

 

She was special. You could see it
in her walk, her look. Almost gliding
on a doubtless female strut. Not arrogant -
no, no. She'd been special for a while.
(Everybody is special to or because
of somebody else. A forgetting of place.)

She went to her horse midwinter, in a closed stable.
Whether she wanted to feed it
or nurse some ailment, she was irrelevant.
Some time before midnight, minus fifteen degrees,
she walks in the stable. Not many animals
more powerful than a horse, but words like tame
and control are often misunderstood.

They seem quiet. No quick movements
but there's tension. A snort, a scrape of hoof,
an eye wide, disliking some careless advance.
She walks through them, around them
until the hierarchy's silent momentum
spills over and horses run, turn and kick.
Maybe at each other, maybe at the intruder.

She's now lying, silently except
a slight whistle through her nose.
She wakes up thirty minutes later, untrodden.
Lucky to be awake and cold;
a cold that is life, that is unnoticable
in a moment of panic and gathering.
She doesn't even notice the broken jaw.
These moments are often forgotten. The incident,
she'll always remember, but not the intense charge;
that natural, primal wildness that cannot be
distinguished between man and beast.