Song of the Trotter

 /   /  By Emma Birches
Stone Soup Magazine
January/February 2011

By Mary Woods

Dark clouds gather, looming huge and gray,
Rain cold-needles my face,
The wind whips me into exhilaration.
A rumbling starts down the track.
Thunder? No, not thunder.
It’s flint-and-steel hooves, striking out a lightning rhythm.
Tap tap,
Tap tap,
Tap tap.

Heads high, ears back—
The rain stings them, too.
Yet I see them charge undaunted,
For they know the storm is theirs.
The track is a dance floor,
With the wind for music.
They know the steps.
Tap tap,
Tap tap,
Tap tap.

Flecked with sweat and rain,
Hot and cold.
The voice of the whip drives them on.
They stretch out, bodies glistening.
My heartbeat joins with theirs,
As they speed straight under the wire,
Singing the song of the harness horse.
Tap tap,
Tap tap,
Tap tap.

Song of the Trotter Mary Woods

Mary Woods, 12
Frankfort, Illinois

About the Author

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