Look, your colts fret; my old mare waits

Look, the colts at my keep’s lower gate fret at every buckle, stamping whenever a groom lifts the saddle. My old mare stands with one hind hoof slack while I fasten the girth; she has learned the work does not hurry because she does.

Right, last frost she waited beside the mounting block until I came back for the glove I had dropped in the straw. The colts had already pulled at their reins and forgotten me. She only turned an ear when I returned, as if patience were part of the tack.

Look, you can teach a young horse a route, but an old one seems to know where a pause belongs. I trust that mare more when the yard is noisy, and I have stopped mistaking stillness for slowness.