Standing high on the ridge,
I saw you for the first time.
Still, peaceful, waiting for nothing.
I noticed you before.
Your picture in a painting,
hanging in the choir loft of St. Michael’s Church.
You were on the cover Bonadventure magazine,
and I brushed shoulders with you yesterday
as I cruised by on Captain Julien’s boat.
But I did not see you, not really.
How many eons have you stood
allowing water to cleanse your strong legs?
The wind sweeping your tail away.
Do you mind those cormorants nesting in your mane,
those crazy birds,
drying their stubby wings on the crown of your head?
The side of your neck shows the sad face of Jesus.
You carry much on your old back—
a large granite rock that was once
a piece of the red mountain across the road.
I see you clearly now.
Horse drinking water.