A lightening quick, muscular palomino
nuzzling in white dress feathers.
Her soft, war-ready eyes.
Small tremors of excitement
echo the drums across the meadow.
The skies draped in orange and brown sit down to wait.
We mount and ride out in the quiet-bitten morning,
our war colors hammering the wind.
Sailing like hawks over the scapular brown hills,
shivering like Creation,
we count coup in a rock hard whirlwind.
Cries of “hoka hey!” escape the shuddering, longdance of death.
Red and blue paint on warm, blood-scented brindle hindquarters.
Fiery gold aspens riffling along the river at sunset.
Smell of summer honey and the smooth cobbled call of the creek at night.
The pale hooves of the morning still ring in the high canyons.