Janet Biggs, Part 2

She laid her hand on his side, and gently stroked him. Then she stroked his shoulder, and then the hard, tense arch of his neck. And she was startled to feel the vivid heat of his life come through to her, through the lacquer of red-gold gloss. So slippery with vivid, hot life!

She paused, as if thinking, while her hand rested on the horse's sun-arched neck. Dimly, in her weary young-woman's soul, an ancient understanding seemed to flood in.

D.H. Lawrence, "St. Mawr"

Horses are blessed with an alert expression, this despite the fact that they aren't half as smart as, say, a pig. Any halfway lonesome child who currycombs some rows in the dust caked on a horse's broad neck, or takes a minute to rub the white star on his forehead, is prompted by this look to feel that the horse loves and understands her as no one else. This myth is especially easy to fall into if the horse is steady and good-natured enough to take said kid on long rides without trying to scrape her off against a tree or otherwise showing fret over the burden of her.

Mary Karr, The Liars' Club

I began to relax a little, trotting this horse around the schooling ring. After he'd had enough of that, I eased him into a slow canter, then changed direction to see if he knew his lead changes yet. He switched his lead leg so easily I knew Reb'd spent some time on him. Reb picked horses more by how they went than by how they jumped. Said they could grow into better jumpers, but that if they didn't have a nice smooth way of going they'd never learn it, never be hunters. I'd picked up a bit of his eye and appreciation this way. Watching a gawky horse could even set me fidgeting sometimes.

This one put me right at ease. I liked it best when I could blend in with a horse, settle into his gait. Like Tory said, just let him run things. When that happened, nothing else mattered except being along for the ride.

Heather Lewis, House Rules

I got inside him in some way I can't explain and he got inside me. Often we would stop walking for no cause and he would put his nose up against my face.

I wished he was a girl sometimes or that I was a girl and he was a man. It's an odd thing to say but it's a fact. Being with him that way, so long, and in such a quiet way, cured something in me a little. Often after an evening like that I slept all night and did not have the kind of dreams I've spoken about.

Sherwood Anderson, "The Man Who Become a Woman"