Goldee

Our footsteps squish the damp grass,
The morning dew still in place.
The purple hue of early twilight
Clings to the barns, the mountains.

Her shoes click the concrete,
The noise echoes against the silence.
The rope slides over the rail,
A knot’s, gentle, but firm, hold.

The brush bristles her coat,
Dust and hay flicker down.
The pick scrapes at the mud,
Freeing her hoof from the damp.   

The saddle pad settles on her back,
The buckles of the girth snap, secured.
The bit glides into her mouth, she chews,
As first light breaks over the horizon.

A foot in the stirrup, swing over and down.
Her head lifts, her ears flick forward.
The beams reach us, glittering,
As we both look into the future.