Wednesday, May 4, 1994

STOLEN RIDE

STOLEN RIDE
                                                      —for Nathan

Bright copper against the afternoon sky,
they were better than day dreams.
Like young girls they coyly bared their necks,
pulled the tall oats with such surety,
ears and feet in a slow syncopated tandem waltz.
In love with their beauty, I was ten.

With ropes concealed behind our backs
Micaela and I climbed the steep hillside.
Honey-voiced, we approached, they leaned
into us as we scratched their necks.
The wind lufted their manes like prayer flags.
I was ten, I idolized the lake country of their eyes.

The ropes arranged themselves.
As if by magic, we were transported
to the ridges that opened like a path
leading us deeper into the mystery.
I was ten, in love with their flint-hooved surety.

The kingdom of the air was ours.
Our hearts flying, fists clenching manes,
raw horsepower unleashed the green blur
of meadows, the flight of birds, our teachers.
I was ten, enraptured with their velocity.

We could not bear the separation at dusk.
Alive, they filled the barn with their breathing.
Mesmerized by the rhythmic grinding of their teeth,
we felt proud, gathered armloads of grass.
Our secret safe in the abandoned barn,
we went home bursting with excitement.
Ours! Ours! I was ten, in love with their loveliness.

The red light of the sheriff’s car
worried the curtain, the blood rose
like lava and settled, that dread chill
icing my toes. He said “We still hang
horse thieves around here.”
In trouble with the law,
I stood there, ten, afraid to breathe.
In love with their beauty, I was ten.

5/4/94

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