We Call Him Frisco

Standing bent the horse was pulling grass
under a peach tree.
Freed from his pasture he sought out human companionship,
inching closer to the house as he chewed.
Often, he would stand at the sliding glass door
just watching us inside the dark living room.
I stepped out into the silence and met him.

We called him Frisco
Only a horse in Texas could have that name.
A black, sturdy Tennessee Walker.

Taking the rough brush in my hands I made long slow strokes across his dusty body.
I imagined he felt as lonely as I did but not as lost.

He knew he belonged here,
In the buzzing humid air among the green grass.
A bucket of grain in the morning, a pile of hay, a welcoming carrot,
the sun rising from darkness then sinking back into it.

In the afternoons Frisco would run hard to the property line,
lift his head and call a gentle, high-pitched neigh to the neighboring horse.
There would be an answer, another call and then again, an answer.
Two horses yearning to share the same pasture, to just be.

I continued to groom him, tears streaming down my face.
Thick red dust unrelenting on his back.
It would take heavy rain to wash it off.

Standing tall, strong,
eyes locked on mine
he understood, he knew,

I longed to share his language.

~kao