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Freshet
A death-dance,
a horse swept away.
Hooves flash and slap
the frothing pitch.
Neck cranked tight,
in the cascading
white-waters.
Terrible to behold.
A large chunk of tree,
just a large log
branches mimicking
thrashing legs.
Not a real horse in the act
of being swept away.
But terror is real
even as an illusion.
My mind is still
looking through its own
alarming image.
For a moment the river
had its spurs in me.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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