Teacher It must be magic to be a horse in her care. I’ve seen her with them, and I’ve seen her with us, us young, damaged girls. She sends us around in circles on the horse’s back. Standing, sitting, arms out. She’s still growing up, too. But she is already a mother, a guide, a friend. Who taught her these things? I wonder, as she teaches us to weave through trees in a dark forest alone, but not alone, not while the beasts still stand beside us. A warm muzzle in the hand, A head bowed with eyes closed. No smack to a hoof, no snap on the lead, no boot in the side. She slides into the saddle like she’s going home.