Sonnet Nine

Little Running Horse sadly muzzled,
looks at me, demoted and puzzled.
What is this thing around my mouth?
she thinks, drained of her wild mirth,
mirth she feels, her true love found
in nature, where she will not bow down.
Rubbing her face against the ground
she tries to remove the foreign object,
a burden unwanted she strives to reject.
I'm determined by the course of events.
She is nothing a muzzle represents.
We walk around cat tail pond.  I lead
wondering about her various breeds.
The wolf inside her pines to be freed.