Horses

Coming up from the spring, where I had searched for clarity, and found a heart of nameless ache, I saw three horses running across half-built house lots, up onto the street. The brown one, from a distance, was perfect - a regal majesty trapped in this world and echoing into the infinite. The white one was imperfect, spotted, and beautiful. A foal ran between them. I was arrested. I stood where I was. They galloped up the hill and into the street at speed, seemingly breaking away. The sound of their hooves on the asphalt was music and my heart mirrored it as they raced out of view, out of earshot.

I continued climbing the hill. The children of the town and half the dogs were chasing the horses around, but the horses were gone. I passed the tree with the green and purple baby figs, came around the corner, the sky a sunset tapestry, and heard the hooves of the horses returning. I saw the form of one against the colors of the sky and was pulled after him, my soul moving outward from my chest.

They ran into a small field and the children of the town ran after them. I couldn't go home, and followed them into the field, only to see one being caught and ridden. They were never really free, these horses. Mastered again, they trotted back to their stable.

As I walked home, it seemed to me that pain and beauty are close neighbors in the soul of man, and I was troubled by the thought.