Percheron, full of mud and duty, returns to the plow.
Bear, with patient eyes, hears them wonder,
"How is he restrained by such a thin chain?"
Wolf, gone from pack headship, guards hens, soul echoing with moon and forest.
Who will caress the power and recognize its beauty?
Who will acquiesce, slip harness, acknowledge prerogative?
Who will lean in and whisper, "Run"?
3 comments:
How the hell did I miss THAT?
Who indeed...
Beautiful John, just beautiful.
Thank you!
Note: I'll be posting this elsewhere, under a different name, shortly. It distills much that I wish to convey to people. I mention this here because when you see a chap called Nicholas saying the same thing, he didn't steal it. He's me.
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