Bucephalus

gently,

she approaches

her hand held open

restless his hooves,

scatter dust

a storm

held in tension,

stirring in the silence

of a threat half spoken

he stomps

the earth

rising

through the haze

of confusion

only the hush of

her breath

is heard

still she circles

closer, her head held low,

her eyes averted,

each breath,

a quiet

offering.

She moves in time

melting into the

wild rhythms

not claimed,

only offered.

Her stillness,

accepted

Holds them both

as the morning

almost breaks —

Her face

slightly veiled, suspended

on a threshold of

surrendering

she enters the dance

on a presence.

And still he waits,

slowly quietening

muscles held

softening  

into the silence,

turning towards

his shadow

their breath

now shares

the same

unspoken

words

not named

not held

but known

in the space

        before

movement,

where something

true

holds

still