When we first met, she was wild and unbroken, had been on her own long enough to belong to herself and to no man. Her instincts were fresh and she was rightly suspicious of any two-legged who wanted to do her a "favor."
And I was so fumblingly stunned by her beauty, that I tried hard to show her that I too longed to be free.
Perhaps, if we hadn’t run out of time, we might have come to see ourselves in each other, might have learned to trust each other.
But time ran out.
She’s no longer wild as she once was.
Now she knows that her fate lies in someone else’s hands.
Now she must depend on another for food, for water, for fresh air, for permission to dance.
Now she knows she must accept the demands of man.
Once the world belonged to her.
Now she belongs to the world.
A world in which there is no place for freedom.
I stood with her awhile last night.
I offered her my hand and she sampled my scent.
As if she were my first lover, I slowly explored her, going slowly, waiting for her clear permission to continue.
With weightless fingers I searched for her sweet spots, found that she enjoyed being scratched on her chest, rubbed in the hollow above her eye, stroked firmly along her neck, and I did things for her until her eyes were dreamy, her lower lip hanging softly down and relaxed.
Withdrawing from her, I settled into a corner, gazed out.
After a time, her soft muzzle nudged my hand as she memorized my scent, then brushed by ear, nickering ever-so quietly.
I wondered if she could sense what a sweet privilege it is for me to be close to her.
To feel her whiskers tickle the skin of my cheek.
Her warm breath on my neck bringing on goose-bumps.
The bottomless beauty of her sin-dark eyes, making my own eyes well up.
And so we stood together awhile longer, side-by-side, as if arm-in-arm.
Two resigned souls on the wrong side of a long lost battle.