A lightening quick, muscular palomino
nuzzles in white dress feathers.
Her eyes are soft and war-ready.
Small rumors ripple the greasy grass.

The skies wear orange and brown.
We ride out in the still-bitten morning,
our war colors hammering the wind,
sailing like hawks over the scapular brown hills,
shivering like Creation.

Then counting coup in a rock hard whirlwind.
Cries of “hoka hey!” in the shuddering, long dance of death.
Red and blue paint on warm,
blood-scented brindle hindquarters.

At dusk, yellow aspens riffle near the river.
The smell of summer honey,
the smooth cobble call of the creek at night.
The pale hooves of the morning
still ringing in the high canyons.

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