The grey stallion lay dead.
His head cocked queer against his frame.
His mighty muscles sooner would bash a coyote
Than lay a welcome feast to scavengers.
Raised to the call of the wild
Raised vertical: heavy hooves pounding stallions,
To gain his lead, great nostril’s snorting dominance,
And yet today: horizontal, bloody, beaten does he lay.
The grassy fields bow before him,
As if he is once more he is within the wind pounding the earth.
The last of his offspring will hear the tale of his final battle.
That fate, held a black stallion more cunning and ruthless-
And the mighty grey stallion grew old within the eyes of a minute,
As his mind became prey to his defeat.
But he did not go down easily, like a rabbit to a bear-
He fought his last fight with the heart of a stallion-
To which no fight can compare.
