HORSES IN THE MIST

HORSES IN THE MIST

I love each one,
the Palominos,
the Dapples.

They have names,
some after heroes,
some after perfumes.

Each distinct
in their noble grace.
Gentle Giants of
another race.

Grazing there, in the
mist.

If I were privileged to
be a Horse,
I’d join them.

Rejoice in the quiet
cocoon of herd acceptance,
bask in the resilience of
seasons every-changing,

and delight my senses
in the unassuming
tranquility of

the mist