she arcs across his evening,
a brilliant bolt of lightning.
a milky bolt of silk; a sword.
(a filly’s colt, he might sing…
but nay: a neigh gets in the way.
he watches her in silence.)
his filthy coat was never gay.
he doesn’t know what pride is.
doesn’t assume she’ll swoop–
if so, won’t settle long beside him–
if settled, then he hid near well–
ignored, he thinks, if sighted.
she turns and hurdles earthward,
so he makes space for her form.
he squints against the dazzle, and
she spits out bits of storm.
a tossing mane, a glossy cast,
silver hooves, a horn–
he gasps (as only horses can)
and kneels within the corn;
this gentle whicker whispers,
missing clean that unicorn…
or she heard it, as do victors
on the field their war has torn;
might dismiss such with an absent nod.
forget it by the morn’.
-the filly’s body language tells
of legends therein born;
gives testament to heavens rent;
slips messages, and beckons glimpse…
peripheral and hesitant,
he lifts his head (per second: inch)–
abruptly, she’s aloft again–
his gut screams, he collects his strength–
he springs, knowing the wretchedness
of those who cannot test the wind–
but leaps, but leaps, but stretches with
a limb–some limbic next-of-kin–
oh air! -oh, there she crests the length–
an errant thought, invested in–
he feels a tautness, pressing skin–
a peel, a rawness–restlessness–
the field: it falls!?–she sets a quick…
pursued, now, by a Pegasus.
-i chase you yet, yearling to yearling. thomas the younger; september 16th, 2009. all nights reserved.