A whinny wakes the valley, as the sun
paints crimson on the crests of hills and rooves.
The herd is restless; how they long to run.
I stir to hear the thunder of their hooves.
Across the creek they gallop, send the spray
of broken water dancing through the air.
A leap to clear the fallen tree, away
they dash, so free of human woe and care.
Atop the hill they pause with steaming flanks,
survey this land to which they lay a claim -
the bush, the flats, the river and its banks;
see how the dawn has set their world aflame.
And I, the watcher, follow in their course,
and wish, this morn, that I too was a horse.
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