Hawk is a horse
Always on course
Along a riding space
Trotting and cantering as if it were a race
The arena remains brown, dusty
Surrounded by white fences; never rusty
A smooth, brown coat blends
Across Hawk’s body; his black mane sends
Jagged flames surfacing
Soft, and never hardening
A nose-band and throat-latch
Remain attached
To Hawk’s muzzle
Looping
Drooping
Down towards his hooves
That always moves
With a soft, yet stomping step
Curved like the bottoms of shoes
The hooves contain grooves
Grooves, chiseled to indicate
The u-curved, horse shoe shape
My hands grip the leathery reins
Whipping Hawk at low to high strains
Each strain pushes him as if he were a film still
His hooves running; fast-forwarding to a thrill!
The grayed pebbles on the floor tremble
As the hooves assemble
Ending up in scattered piles
As Hawk runs through the miles
My body vibrates against his
Creating a sudden twinge; as is
Expected; a horse trotting; coughing breaths
Your hands attempting to cling on; as if avoiding falling into depths
Of the hard ground
While making a thudded sound
As Hawk’s trotting slows, my feet slip down, and I get off
Hawk smiles a teeth-lacking smile; a smile that’s never a scoff