As the horses ran down the mountain like a raging
sand storm, I knew I was in Wyoming.
The swift, creek water was mint in my mouth.
I felt sandpaper as I touched the horse’s hair.
I turned around to see the trees of the forest swaying as if
they were rocking their leaves to sleep.
Everywhere I walked I could smell the scent of the
flowers like the perfume of a beautiful women.
I found myself crying as I watched the beautiful
horses run across the plains beating
their hooves to a strong, clear beat.
Dubuque, IA
