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Have you ever felt the quiet,

A sundown that steadies your bones?

I stood for a moment as the horses ate grain,

Big, bold geldings as gentle as whispers,

As noble as gods:

Old Red, his eyes blurred with cataracts,

My horse, the orphaned-pinto,

His breath always in my hands,

And the arthritic gray herd leader,

Now totally white with age.

Some people hope for castles,

As for heaven, I’d prefer a barn.

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