Sun Mare, Pt. 1

Colts gather in the tall grass,

Dry from drought,

To run about.

It seems like yesterday they learned to do that-

It seems just yesterday was the day they were born.

They gather in the grass

And kick clouds of drought sand into the air.

Whinnies and snorts are sung aloud,

Sung aloud to the Great Plain clouds.

A rouge wind rushes in,

Through the treeless summer plane,

Leaving rustled mane

Like rustled grass; long, dry, and displaced.

Through thistle-hued eyes,

The summer sun slides

And shows a mare her colt.

He lances and dances

To the flank of his mother.

Safe,

Beneath the legs of his mother.