Poetry

I'm on the edge of freedom. I still grip the horn tightly with one hand, and the reins with the other. The tall grass brushes my legs as we glide by, and the horseflies attempt to stop us. But the air is smitten, and the open fields beckon. Between my quickening heartbeat and the Lakota songs we sing at the base of the grandmother tree, Silver will follow the emerging rhythm. We're finding our own cadence. I'd dance if it weren't for my tight grasp. If only I could give Silver a little more slack. He'd take me to the next line, where chestnut trees give, wild turkeys fly, and ginseng multiply. That's poetic. Life enchants when you look up. The next line comes, and the next just verse flows.