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.