Its musty smell belies its use.
Its age belies its youth.
Creaking softly as it is picked up,
And carried.
Flung over, cinched down.
With a swish of fabric,
It is pushed down onto the withers.
Rushing wind, beating hooves, dripping sweat.
Gentle rubbing, lathering.
The wind stops.
Uncinched, creaking softly as it is picked up
And carried.
Its musty smell belies its use.
Its age belies its youth.
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Do you like my stories and poems? You can buy my e-books here: Brooks Gaited Horse Training
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