By: Katie M. Moss
The red-yellow-golden brown flakes glide across the earthen crust of a barren wind-chilled day,
As horses shake their tasseled manes in the painted-fire sky.
Groans of hard-pressed use flows across their chocolate-brown-honey coats.
Today the wind is changing.
They can smell it, fear it, taste it.
Red-necked skin-scorched man stumbles out of a wasteland-grey stump of a fluid-filled home.
“Every day’s the same,” he chants. “Every day’s the same.”
“Nowhere left to go,” he says, as the horses shake their manes.
May 22, 2010
