I pat the horses‘ heads as I walk by.

    They‘re gentle beasts， and friendly； they don’t mind.

    The gesture heartens me. I don‘t know why.

    At first， they did not trust me； they were shy，

    suspicious. Maybe I don‘t seem the kind

    to pat a horse‘s head as I go by，

    And maybe I am not. I can‘t deny

    that might not seem a move I‘d be inclined

    to make toward great dumb brutes¹， and I know why：

    They‘re alien； they’re stubborn； they defy

    their handlers. They‘re not safe to walk behind.

    I pat the horses‘ heads as I walk by，

    Then stop at one， and peer deep in his eye.

    There‘s sense， I sense， yet not much I can find.

    But still， that heartens me. I don‘t know why，

    Except， a fellow creature‘s there that I

    can stretch a hand to， ignorant and blind，

    that makes me feel a bond as I walk by.

    That gesture heartens me. I don‘t know why.