But the pony was already running
when it came to the fence. I only
didn’t stop it; I didn’t make it run,

and now its eyes are
and its legs are
and I’m sorry that

I only did what I was told, which was
not worrying about the pony anyway,
no matter how many times it hit

that fence
or jumped over,
spooked by

snow and cars, snowflakes whirling
in headlights and in eyes gone white
not with impact but with knowing.