Shy at the gate,

toss your head, flip your tail, 

switch ears, twitch nostrils-

a fine tension builds,

keep with it.

Shimmy your skin and whinny, yes,

a whoa-what’s-happening kind of alarm.

Stay with it.

That gate’s got words for you,

and not of a sort your brain’s going to comprehend.

They have teeth, and dirt, and a strange wind to them,

which may be the reason for the fleeting,

repeating

blood chills, maybe.

Rushing to run misses the opportunity.

Kick the temple bell with an eager hoof if you have to

but know

this place between,

at the gate before god knows what and you,

holds the field of promise.

Hang in, possibility calls you far,

far from the familiar.

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