#63

Hooves stand softly on rough laid brick. Oily brown hair shining, nostrils flaring as the creature breathes slowly, tasting the air, observing the world with black eyes. On his back, a helmeted man sits perched. A thousand feet carry beating hearts filled with hope and fury into his view and he stands, watching. He can feel their movement in the vibrations that resonate up his bony legs. Both splintery picket signs and voices rise and fall around him. He chews his bit, shifts his hooves. He does not know the words but he senses the sentiment. Hands reach out, touch his wet nose, stroke his course hair. He licks the salt from outstretched digits. He does not seek to understand the workings of man. They are of no concern to him.