by Allan Peterson

Look at the slight valley of the horse between haunch and shoulder，recalling its rider and the low hills between. Form never forgets. Though they are free to be real horses not obscured by work，not pull anything， they must think hard to do nothing but remember their lovers to run the low hills and dream and eat up green landscape. He thinks of her and the way part of him still sinks down the cushions when he's gone. A few remembering shapes linger till the foam or feathers take a deep breath and remember what they were. If he comes back soon he may not be quite missing， indentations rising as if still getting up. When he leaves he feels her still on him， a loving cinch like the feel of hat，the hat gone.