They dragged him into a stable,
rope rasped against the post.
The door clattered shut.
Hay tossed into the trough,
water sloshed into a bucket.
“Fine animal,” they said.
Their hands slid on his coat
like black oil on glass.
They yoked him, snapped the reins.
He lowered his head
and pulled.
But inside him—
a track unfurled.
Shotguns cracked the sky,
the gate slammed open,
hooves hammered harrowed dirt.
Dust drilled his lungs.
Crowds roared beyond the blur.
Nothing mattered;
only the finish line.
So he plowed—
dusk to dawn,
straps slicing his shoulders,
dreams steaming in his heart
flaring against the dark.
One day, the barn swung open.
A donkey was hitched
beside the horse.
He ate the same hay,
drank the same water,
plowed the same field.
The donkey was happy.
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Wolverine Lily 