I
She piles into the no longer empty booth—
With the rest of them.
Hair up in a mess, dressed in tan breeches,
With the rest of them.
Dirt smeared on her face,
Gathered beneath fingernails,
With the rest of them.
Dusty shoes and a sunburnt face,
Just like the rest of Them—
The horse people…
Watch them mingle,
Telling stories, making jokes.
Wearing not-so-white button down shirts,
Black boots.
We sit here, judging them,
Wondering about their horse races,
(If they are horse races)
But they don’t notice us,
No—
They never notice us.

II
She climbs into the massive white truck,
And she sits with the dogs in the back.
Oh the beastly white truck!
Who would drive that?
Is it necessary?
Apparently so.
But she sits,
With her head against the window,
Humming a tune—
Dreaming of the horse’s dance,
Thunderous movements,
The beast’s flowing mane,
His steady breath,
Elegant neck,
Honest eyes—
As he dances to the melody.

III
Upon his back she proudly sits,
Her black boots brightly polished,
White shirt freshly pressed.
He whinnies,
Anxious for victory.
Proceed to walk—
Trot—
Canter—
Hooves like thunder,
He dances as he steps.
She leads. He follows.
Together, energy becoming one.
Then they Jump—
Fly,
Soar,
Away,
Forever free.