It had misted earlier
then quickly froze
soft snow covered by an expansive icy sheet
He is hesitant
Stopping often in a frozen stance,
you know like a pointer dog
another step, maybe two
Again, his foot held aloft
Is he lame?
Briefly he glances my way
distraction
confusion
a few steps
It is the sound
He is bewildered by the sound
Each step like a gunshot,
almost
Loud, ringing out, attracting attention
coming from his own hooves
And he, accustomed to his own
nearly soundless movement
A leap, another, then
Head leant forward
he charges across the field
Shockwaves resonate across the valley
like a wild stallion scrambling over cobblestone
it will be quiet in the timber hopes he...
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Winter is here and I celebrate with some cold-weather reading. I have just finished Pasternak's "Dr. Zhivago" and I've started re-reading Mary Shelley's "Frankenstein," (which I have not read in over 50 years.)
