Postcard 110

I cannot speak for dogs, for goats chickens cows and sheep.
I cannot speak most certainly for cats.
But this I can say with certainty:
One day when we are broken or gone,
horses will be wild again, and free.

You likely don't believe this.
You can recall a horse that likes the saddle, bridle, hobbled knee,
that seeks comfort in these binding buckled leather things.
I have heard men say that horses are crazy stupid mindless beasts.
Lies every jailer claims -- that prisoners, unsuited to the world at large,
take comfort in a prison's rigors, and buck against themselves outside of bars
and locks and keys. And, you insist, they have been --
high-stepping, clipped, caparisoned -- at every martial victory.
Its true.   With bridle bit in filigree, and straddled tassled
saddled buckle bound -- all constraints - all tawdry.

Next time you mount upon this beast
you believe is meant to serve, as if honoring
some onus birthright claimed,
take that hand that makes you man,
lay it gently down
beneath the mane
and feel that river delivering power.
Feel in that artery or vein the beats of naked hooves on naked earth,
the beauty of a flowing uncut tail and mane, and
unadorned unfenced unhindered pauses runs and turns,
the choices of where and how and when.
The future freedom of which all horses yearn.