(for Deborah Meltvedt on her 64th birthday)

This is how I think of you:
sitting inside a pasture fence,
pen in hand, notebook on lap,
grazing horses nearby,

or standing at a fence to let
a curious horse whiffle your
hand before you caress its
velvety nose—you, long

captivated by their smell,
their strength, their majesty,
happy to be in the presence
of such modest magnificence,

which is how I think of you—
your easy, loping gait as we
walk the levee, you who could so
easily outrun me, if you chose,

but you slow down for me,
for others, listening with your
gentle gaze and generous heart.
It is no wonder that we

gravitate to you, as delighted
to see us as we are you—
fine writer, fine rider,
kind friend.