The Golden Mare

Can you feel the animal? ** Special Sonnet.**

Swish the air through the meadow’s hot haze and dust,
in the sun’s heavy glare sweeps a shimmering arc,
at the hum of the flies darts a flick to adjust,
as the midges swarm in, through the day she embarks.

Steady beats carve the grass in the summer’s bright blaze,
firmly hit dusty trails where the clover lies low,
even steps pound the earth in a rhythm’s hot phrase,
strike the ground with a force through the meadow’s warm glow.

Surge through fields in a rush where the rye grasses bend.
Bound o’er streams in a leap through the sun’s golden glare.
Race with wind in a sweep as the dust clouds ascend,
charge through heat with a pulse slinging sweat to the air.

Softly graze in the calm of the meadow’s green spread,
chew the blades with a nod in the sun’s fading red.