I want to be a horse this morning
for my 76th birthday—and yes, it’s just
an imaginary thing, I know, but bear
with me. I want to run free on my four
sturdy legs instead of being hobbled
by these two that I have (though I am,
as my father always joked, grateful to be
vertical and ambulatory—I get that now).

I’ll be a blue roan, I think, American Quarter,
and visit my friends a couple of blocks
away in the nearby pasture. They’ve plenty
of room to get a good gallop going and
won’t mind another to help stir up the dust.
I’ll visit Shirley, who’s on her own in the next
pasture over. We became friends during
the pandemic. She always knew those days
I needed a good visit at the fence, snuggling
her velvet nose in my gloved hand, bending
her head for a good forehead scratch. All
that time I called her Old Gold—just
found out her real name recently, from
the neighbor who visits her each day
and feeds her carrots. She’s more easy-
going than the herd, so we’ll exchange
pleasantries and a little neighborhood
gossip. Then I’ll head for the foothills.
I know just the meadow I want to romp
in, kick up my heels and run as fast
as I can in circles, until evening falls
and the Moon guides the way, and then
I’ll settle down and watch her, the original
horse, make her way through the field of stars.

 

Kathleen Cain is a poet and nonfiction writer from Arvada, Colorado. Recent work has appeared in The Garden Quarto, Bristlecone, medicine for Minds & Hearts and The Medical Literary Messenger. She is the author of The Cottonwood Tree: An American Champion (2007), included on the Nebraska 150 Book List.