I was led to my horse, but I was still very weak. I saw the slender animal quivering with the fever of life. That is not my horse I said, when the innkeeper led a horse up to me every morning. Your horse was the only horse in our stables last night, the innkeeper said, and looked at me, smiling, defiantly smiling. No, I said, that is not my horse. As his saddlebag slid from my shoulder. I turned and went upstairs into the room I had just left
--
Terrible. A horse at night. Standing hitched alone in the still street and whinnying as if some sad nude astride him had gripped hot legs on him and sung a sweet high hungry single syllable.
--
Someone notes, how they don't paint the horse as well as the rider, in moments of transition, and the mood of it is thwarted on purpose. It's that injustice that makes them compatible. It's their inability to recognize one another that keeps them meeting again and again as if for the first time
