Centaur

Hooves on stone, then a human voice. A centaur came out of the Greek wild, bow across the chest, horse body taking the path a man could not. The arrow was not yet drawn. The watching was enough. People stood aside with a centaur gift already in the ribs, the feel of being paced by something faster. It shows again in centaur playing cards laid out like a trail, in a centaur notebook opened at a gallop of short lines, in a centaur postcard of the bow and the unshod hoof. The dust settles. The watch does not.