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Where Horses Run Free
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Flying Free Lying in a hammock, two oak saplings
allow the latticed sunlight to filter
through to warm my thoughts.
A chicken hawk reminds me he
is there, still I embrace the privacy
of this moment.
Green surrounds this place.
The running white fence separates me
from pasture lands.
The lone peacock, pompous poseur,
assumes his position, spreading
kaleidoscope feathers in vain,
portraying some sort of strange joy.
The sounds of rain, out of heaven,
harmonious and holy.
I taste the full drops as I would
a glass of champagne.
Such solitude.
Silent, half asleep, I rise to the
scent of fresh-cut field hay.
In the springtime the fragrance
will be wildflowers.
The first breeze of night catches
distant poised pine needles, and
oh, how they sing.
There is magic in this place,
this beautiful place where
once-wild horses run free,
unafraid.
