If you sit on a horse and it begins to buck, you have choices.
Control, jump or fall.
Does it scare you when she rides like that?
That animal, with four hooves full of desire, will imprint itself and remain.
It keeps a trail.
You can’t hide.
In the hills, where people go to rise above, there is a tree, at first glance, not unlike all of the others, though it’s a familiar thing and I have tied things to it.
And at that place, I made knots and nothing for slipping and fed my beast with preplanned treats, all the way assuming a supposed impulsiveness.
I ride bareback.
We stared at each other for most of that ride.
With bridled eyes and a want that was frisky, we set off into the darkest parts; the heart, the chance, the Brumby of care and we rode there. We rode like we were running.
I lost you somewhere and I know you think I turned around and galloped like I never ever had, but I didn’t.
I waited for your taming.
I grazed on one tiny last straw.
Until I left.
Now, out here, where parts remind me of then too much and where the broken in are supposed to be the luckiest, I wonder if and when you’ll ever jump and escape.
Just like me.
We all roam in a paddocked lifetime, no matter where we go. We are the fences that keep and the ones we are kept behind.
We are our own wildness and pet.
And yet, we are animals forever.
The bucking insists, hearts are spurred and remiss and this throw back of my head isn’t unintentional.
Sometimes no matter how tightly you hold on, you fall, you break, you hurt.
So feed it.
From your hand, your heart or that whip called you.
Calm the rearing thing down and give it this.
It is chaff.