the morgan

her old horse
comes up lame
in the middle
of a cold
rain soaked night
at the stables.
gingerly,
the morgan
steps out
of the barn
under her lead,
snorting with joy
at her presence.
she takes
him up the road
to where
the soft grass
is, outside
the fence
where the other
horses can't
graze.
rubbing his nose
with the palm
of her hand,
she whispers sweet
nothings
into his brown
silk ears. he limps
along as she
feeds him
carrots.
we should be
so lucky
in our end days.