Horse.

Near Central Park, not far from the big Apple store, lots of horses with carriages, lined up, waiting to entertain New York tourists. So vulnerable among cars, so beautiful.
While drawing, I was enjoying their smell, reminding me my youth,  my deep secret weekly adventure, my once a week cutting classes, going on a train, than bus to the country, than riding horses in the forrest, in jockey position, almost standing, with the wind in my hair,  cigarette between my fingers, laughing with my friend, galloping wildly... Late in the evening, almost at night, coming back, trying to hide from my father, smelling my fingers, smiling, than reading poetry (Ahmatova, Mandelshtam,  Block, Baudelaire,  Pasternac, Apollinaire,  Zabolotsky, Annensky, Tcvetaeva), almost till the morning, so next day I will go to art school with my legs hurting from my wild secret adventure, no one knew about.