When the foal is born he doesn’t love his mother.
She is the comfort he is made of.
With time the wild horse
is an exquisite beauty who can fade
or turn
or kick you to death for no good reason.
Yet we chase, kick, bite and run
over and over
brooding in the deserts of our recompense.
Thirsting not for a water, but identity.
We eat the bitter grasses
trampled by our broken feet.
But if, by some bloody miracle,
we don’t die,
we may get to choose.
We may run long enough to band, to fight, and wound
until we hear that voice across any plateau or purple valley.
Wherever we stand that call, not owned but ours
resonates.
A warm breath across our frozen backs
That says, here I am. There you are.
You are nothing. You are everything.
You are me.
