Wild Horses

As I thought about prompt #43, I kept landing on the horse. I have always loved horses and even had a pretty sweet collection of porcelain and sandstone figurines as a young girl. I have always respected their grace as well as their power. As I carefully considered these vegetarians that are still capable of taking a finger off, I came up with this, hopefully speaking to the damage we do when we attempt to tame a force of nature.

Consider the horse in all its natural glory—     

its silky mane flowing as it runs barefoot through a rolling landscape,     

 the hills no barrier to its freedom,     

stopping to graze on the tall grass when hunger sets in,      

resting in a field of wildflowers when it grows tired.

Consider the horse tamed by man—    

penned up in a small space, 

bone-dry hay beneath its shoed hooves,    

barely enduring the strokes of the comb ripping through its knotted tail,     

giving a warning stomp right before it raises its hind leg to land an angry kick,    

dreaming of a field of wildflowers beyond the stable doors.  

Consider the horse used by man--

    foam rising on its glistening coat from endless hours of training,

    running wildly to escape the sting of the whip its jockey uses to "encourage,"

knowing all along the track is an endless loop,

a hell it won't escape until its no longer useful.