It’s sweat and dirt
Snow and rain
It’s love and war
And freedom and pain

It’s flying and groundwork
And the sharp creak of leather
It’s the thrill of soaring wingless
And an intolerance for weather

It’s the slippery-handled crop
With the old grimy brush
It’s the long-empty grain bin
And the ever-present rush

It’s palomino and bay
Chestnut and tobiano
It’s black, white, and dappled
And roan, brown, albino

It’s the clank of the bit
The adjusting of straps
It’s the cold taste of silver
And no time to face the facts

It’s the banishing of impossible
Fifteen hands off the ground
It’s those hooves of my invincibility
That make my world go round