Up in the pinion covered highlands,
I came upon a wild horse band.
I counted six rangy horses, grazing there,
including the Stallion and the lead mare.
It was truly a range cowboy's delight.
there were four bays, a roan and one mostly white.
The muscled stallion stood watchful up on a rise,
and followed my every move with his eyes.
Then the stallion somehow signaled the lead mare,
in a language only wild horses can share.
She led her charges up a winding trail,
and her movement broke my hypnotic spell.
I admired their surefootedness and their survival skills,
as they quickly ascended the rocky hills.
The Stallion was last, bringing up the rear,
It was self preservation, not nervous fear.
it was awe inspiring as I watched them flee,
but a melancholy wistfulness came over me.
The Mustang, like the cowboy,symbol of the west,
drifted into the sunset, and went over the crest.
Copyright © harold miller | Year Posted 2005
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