Strangers at Twilight
by David HuddleThe black mare with the white diamond lets me
bump foreheads with her across the fence,
Then we’re at a loss.I was lonely the whole
afternoon.All day her girl didn’t come
to ride.In this field big enough for a dozen,
she’s the single horse. I tell her she’s pretty.
She lightly sniffs my new shirt.That’s it–we’re
at the end of what can transpire between an old man
and a young horse who’ve just met.I say goodbye,
wave as I would to my sister if I had one, then
walk down my side of the fence line.She waits
a long moment, then trots, catches up, and will
pass me except that sixty-eight years old I know
from third grade a race when I’m in one, by golly
I’m with her five strides, seven, ten!Then, well —
I let her win. She and I both know what’s right.
David Huddle is the author of seven poetry collections, six short story collections, five novels, a novella, and a collection of essays titled The Writing Habit. He won the 2012 Library of Virginia Award for Fiction for Nothing Can Make Me Do This and the 2013 Pen New England Award for Poetry for Blacksnake at the Family Reunion.
