I once rode like Epona,
down the royal reds of autumn leaves,
chasing wild turkeys until
they actually took to wing.
The trees still shook in those clear moments
before the winds blew harsh and cold,
but the shaking was a laughter, a dance,
a shivering free of color and light
so they could stand naked at last
against the blue skies.
In the riverbed, the water ran,
bright and a little sullen, too,
paradox of shadow and sun,
reaching in dampness for smooth gray stones,
like it was trying to be spacious,
but also knew ice would bind it soon,
a child sent to its bed.
My pony’s eyes, one brown and one blue,
flicked over the trail, ears tipping
in their thicket of wild mane.
He missed very little and I
was not old enough
to make symbols and icons
out of such things.