Have you ever felt the quiet,
A sundown that steadies your bones?
I stood for a moment as the horses ate grain,
Big, bold geldings as gentle as whispers,
As noble as gods:
Old Red, his eyes blurred with cataracts,
My horse, the orphaned-pinto,
His breath always in my hands,
And the arthritic gray herd leader,
Now totally white with age.

Some people hope for castles,
As for heaven, I’d prefer a barn.