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I’m so confident of what a horse is that I am taking chisel to stone and forming, frown-faced and devoted to my craft, a raft of callipygian mares, proud and buxom (for balance), though modestly tuck-tailed. I continue to muse as I work.
If I were a horse, I’d approve this representation. Solid, yet springy in the haunches. Alert, prepared, with the tidy hooves and massed, curled tail of a well-fed nag. With a crenellated mane and a throat like a battlement, butressed by sinews in arches so splendid they must be embellished with sweeping white strokes, calligraphied along like foam on the river, eddying in breathless finials.
Humor in the rounded jowl, wisdom in the open eye. Peacefully open to spite the tree-bending wind of the world. It has blown through before; it will blow through again. Let it howl. I’ll hold my weight lightly, and if I choose to push off with the flex of a delicate ankle, I’ll rise and bound gently and follow the swans.
I set my chisel down and blow the final dust away. A vision appears, but not my own. I have set in stone, I think, how horses see themselves.
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