Tiny terrors

It was jarring the way she hopped so quickly 
from bunnies into horses.  Just innocent

little girl wishes, her histories with a small smile
naively, she shifts her weight with

her eyes nailed to the podium

avoiding eye contact it was hard to tell
she had known danger
intimately. 

“If the rider is nuts,

the horse bolts,” they always say.

Today, she spoke of the long lean

and pressure points.

Her shoulders showed 
she had seen her share of withers shake with warning.

Her baby hairs frizzed out in agitation 
that the truth is-
size may matter.

She had seen the rippling muscles so tense
her voice quivered,

where the equines veins are forced to sit atop

and strain under pulled skin at the nodes.

She had looked into glass ball brown eyes that flash a slit

of white, not watchful but warning.

Square teeth, as green as a homeless herbivore 
human, in flashes likewise with his

ears pinned back-

Hold on or get trampled.

Such is movement

in dreams. 

Afraid of spiders, she added at the end.

When she looks away briefly,

It becomes clear,

the horses have followed her gaze-

she should be afraid.

Rabbits don't hide 

in hats, but they do leave holes

so she can keep her fears 

penned up 

in poetry. 





Painting By Edmund C. Tarbell, 'Schooling the horses' c. 1902 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.