Storm on the Horizon
He waits.
He listens, intently
with the knowledge that countless
eons have bestowed,
the sense of something coming.
Eyes bright, he looks,
cranes his neck and ears,
tuned to the sound of my voice,
of my step, of my smell.
He stands, reaching out his neck,
stretching out toward my hands
pressed to his so-soft muzzle,
ears curved to scythes,
nearly touching at the tips,
and follows obediently
as I lead him away
his body alert in its lines,
his hooves clip-clopping behind
in a sweet symphony of two.
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