If we were smart, we would hang our hearts on things that don’t think for themselves. Things that don’t feel. We would love sports cars or landscaping or the sorts of collections our grandparents had, like butterflies or stamps.
But then, we couldn’t control vandals or weather or fire any more than we can control riding wrecks or fencing disasters or trailer accidents or colics. Something bad could still happen.
And we would have missed the best things.
The wuffling of breath in our cupped hands, when we visit them at dusk. We have left our gloves behind, because we want to feel our souls inside their skins. We close our eyes to smell the warmth beneath their manes.
We feel them press about us, prey choosing predator, because they have made us something better. We let them come, though they are murderously huge and we ought to be afraid, because this is a two-handled treasure. We’ve made something of each other.