He couldn’t take his eyes off the legs.  They weren’t a horse’s legs pulling his carriage, they were human.  They were thin and bony, the feet bare.  Just as he could no longer bear to see those legs stop and then strain to start again in crowded traffic, the carriage took a turn to the right, onto a more open road, to where the legs found their rhythm.  The gait widened, the flow evened.  The body got angled almost too precisely forward.  The carriage’s harness, which had earlier seemed awkward and bulky around the shoulders, now fit to a T.  The legs looked lithe, not bony; the feet a blur and not thumping pistons. He was watching an athlete in full stride.  He long remembered how comfortable he had felt, settled in, appreciating the performance, till the moment his own nature struck: How had he, just in the turn of a street corner, distanced himself from the burden this man had to endure — for no more than a morning’s meal — and become instead mesmerized by the beauty and grace of that man’s response to it?  He never satisfied himself with his own reasoning, but he did keep in mind one thing: regardless of one’s burdens, there always is a person in any individual that will find its way out if given the space.