To be ridden bare-back, he was nostalgic for our first saddle. I struggled not to buck, although its chafe on my latest shape flecked my temper with pebbles of edge. By this time, flight was all-but impossible. No doubt he was less than proud of his own decline, like the thinning of his magnificent tail, which had once draped our privacy so lavishly. A pall of sorrow shadowed our path, including the synchronized dive we hoped to master with only our shared straw & his mouthful of beating hearts. There was nothing for it but to hold my breath & recall the first time I softened to the heat of his attention through the firm but supple, virgin leather.

Originally published in White Wall Review 40 (2016)