The piebald horse head sits on a bookshelf, a nick out of his left ear. Since I pummeled damp clay into his rough shape I’ve flown to many places. My wind spirit waits at home while I travel.
He knows when I admire St Mark’s bronze quadriga, watch snow-white Camarguaise mares nudging black foals, see brumbies through mist over a Kakadu swamp, glimpse distant mustangs in red rock country, applaud a dancing Lippizaner, and breathe dung-sweet air at the Museum of the Living Horse in Chantilly.
When I see an image of a high-bred stallion, neck arched, nostrils flaring, I see one of Earth’s great sights. Horses in flat-out gallop have me in tears. I know why they're sacred spirits, talismans.
between earth and sky
the curve of a pony's neck
bridging the hills