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.