Snouts push and jerk back,
ears spring forward,
manes disheveled and unpulled
fill the air around her body.
They yearn to put nostrils upon her,
strange crouching creature
with hands so miraculous
they can hold grass or grain,
or some unseen marvel, for these
are fillies eager to smell
all the salt savor of the world,
get their lips upon her mane
of chocolate hair, pull with young teeth
her purple shirt and nuzzle the sweat
pooling at her chin’s crease.
These fillies will run over grass,
they will call to the males and breed,
they will suckle their foals and
die young.  Now they stand
still as glass on a June morning
so she can place her palm on the
creamy blaze of the boldest.
When she stands and throws
her hands skyward, the herd
pours apart like streams of water
from an overflowing bowl.
She turns to me and smiles
as the pasture opens its
bright door to galloping hooves.