Black felt in the forest.

In the wood where all was wild, I spied there a wet mare, her hair dark and shining with lather. I saw her legs quiver, her mouth pulled tight. I approached slowly and folded my hands around her head softly, gently untying the laces to remove her blinders. I saw her eyes flash and darken, first dancing over all the periphery and then, well trained for the long road ahead, she turned down to gaze at the ground, to avoid the ramble and mutiny of color and movement there in the strange forest where she was found.

(But how? How did this track horse loosen herself from the jockey of life, early life where the jumps ahead were so habitually practiced whilst she ran around and around the footpath? Or, later, from hearing the ‘go!’ shot and shooting off into a frenetic race, intent on stopping only when her heart finally burst?)

A one-trick pony, a show horse, half-animal and half-machine, I saw she was ragged and tired, having galloped on and on, even in the absence of any whip. Did she know where she was, I wondered. I said aloud into the cool air: Do you see there are no spectators? No throng of bet-makers wagering on your fate? I reached out to touch her and felt her flinch under my touch—felt her muscles flex in tension and felt the anxiety that vibrated in the space around her. I said words of comfort and compassion, soft words meant to soothe and steady. I looked into her eyes as one looks into a mirror.

For many moments, we stayed that way, speaking without a common language. (I dropped the felt blinders into the tall grass.)