In the quiet of the night, under moonlight,
the horses are restless, bright eyes wild,
scarlet hooves pawing on wood, harnesses
jangling. With reins loose and stirrups empty they
shake their black manes in the cool breeze.
Painted nostrils flare, glistening; lips curl.
By sheer force of collective will the round-
about begins to turn. The horses rise and
fall in their corralled circle, but free of the
Master and the tyranny of whooping children.
They snort, pace, twist and toss. The pain in their
eyes tells of the brutal piercing through back
and belly, the rod that holds them, binds them
to this mockery. But the anger is contained,
reserved for the day when they will break free,
trampling the Man, scarlet, under their hooves,
showing him for once and all who’s free,
what’s fair. That’s when the fun begins.