Ruskin and the Horses

Man riding horse on green grass
Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash

They always felt he wasn’t fully
committed to the jumps, nor to sharp

corners. No matter how shallow the waters
to cross, he’d prefer to stop at the bank,

stare off over treetops lining the glen.
Littoral. That’s what they knew

him to be. He loved them, sure.
Quick with brush or oats,

but never willing to let himself
fall into their gallop or break

into flat run. It wasn’t exactly
fear they smelled coming off

his skin, more like a desire
for something static, or frozen

in stone. His was a steady malaise
against the electricity of life

and nothing they could do
would ever drag his spirit toward joy.

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