And the world was full of wild horses
to fly as lighting over scruffy plains
And people cowered at the forces
that tossed their lives — the winds the rains
And horses snorting snot and blood would fall
— hooves cracking skulls — beneath crude stick-stone mauls.

Who first put hand to mane, set face on muzzle?
I guess after some violence from creature
or earth or man, and orphaned in the tussle
a foal on wobbly legs — no mare to reach for —
with shivering eyes he braces for the blow
from boy aged thirty hefting stone to deal woe
when daughter rounding twelve leaps ‘tween yelling “No!”
in some long last tongue from letterless time
when man with beasts as siblings tiffed — guileless infants of the sublime.

How many “No!”s before some hide-clad man —
more moved by love’s wide mystery than narrow certainties —
dropped killing stone on grass beside to stand
as quiet and careful as old eternity
while giddy giggles met shaky neighs?
Or was the start a rougher crueler course —
did savage grownup ambition, not child’s play
first tame the wild thunder-running horse?

Proofs lacking, happy-trails-type tales we will
call “true”. She Who Rides with Thunder lived long.
In a world where fever, fang, and chill
most souls did ferry back to the Light our home
‘fore forty; she ranged past sixty seasons
Through open meadow open sky. Reasons?
The joy of it all was enough.
But on the way she met and led
Generations of those who loved
To be the ones of whom it was said
They ride on thunder
They flow with the wonder
Of it all.

What is remembered and what is forgotten?
What is captured and what goes missing?
When we die and our bones get soft and rotten?
No one remembers who first of the living
Bound over stone and scraggle riding high
On giant creature with soft careful eye.

When we die all is lost to the fire that burns
Forever and forever. All melts away except
The joyous Love we living knew we moving learned.
We are formed of and we dissolve within What Is the very Best.

Authors: BW/AW
Editor: AW/BW
Copyright: AM Watson

How many “No!”s before some hide-clad man —
more moved through love’s wide mystery than narrow fears,
hopes, panicked certainties, big-man stands —
dropped killing stone and bent near to hear
human giggles conjure shaky neighs?
Or was the start a rougher crueler course —
did savage grownup force, not child’s play
first tame the thunder running high-plains horse?

unevidenced, we yippy sweet yarns will
call “true”. She Who Rides on Thunder lived long.
In a world where fever, fang, and chill

When we die all is lost to the fire that burns
Forever and forever. All burns away except
The joyous Love we living knew we moving learned.
We’re born and we die only into what is the very Best.