She sat the pinto pony,

Whose tail was a tattered flag,
Whose coat was unshorn wool,
Who had bucked one off,
Bolted on another, backed up, and balked.

Her feet still, toes to the trees that lined the arena,
Hands the slant of a church roof,
The reins squeezed, not tugged,
Words softly cooed.
She rose from the saddle,
Touched down and rose again,
Like kisses on a child's forehead.

The pinto pony lowered his head and tucked his chin, trotted on,
Soft to the hands of the guest on his back.

A guest welcomed on the stormiest of days.