"Amber went all Orange County on me
With her Wellesley knee-patch breeches
Putting the Hanoverians in dressage formations
Like they were falcons. She'll scare the boarders,
This is no 3-day eventing, This is America!
It's like she owns the very air."
Left unsaid are her ten client horses
That she'll surely take with her shortly
When she vacates his pasture. But with his
Stylish vape pen and cell phone holster,
He's less concerned about the further thinning
Of his livery yard than the effect on other horses
Of going cuckoo on a floating trot.
This always happens when ownership changes,
Horsefolk don't want rearrangements
And are content to leave the familiar entirely
Than yield to change. There are a lot of people like that
Now, who howl at the ground they've always defended
With renewed hatred and vengeance, to stall that same
Feeling about themselves
But the ground has collapsed, to help them know how
To rise, but few do, they double down instead
Their snorting and their rearing, their belief in
An illusion they refuse to unsee.
The horses here are the same way, reeling
From each emptied stall as if their fellow stabled
Was escorted at midnight to death row
But it's always that way with a new owner, they change things
For the better, but the yellow police tape spread across
The meadow saddens Brio, like the distant high-tension wires
Saddened Frank Lloyd Wright at Taliesin. He can't see the plans
That will bring him more grass, an English-sized arena, and more
Room to graze in the face of this yellow optical maze
That vibrates like no mustard he'd ever seen.
New boarders always come to embrace the privilege of
A new thing, and a new coin is soon deposited in
The abundance bank. But the jury is out on who will stand
The test of flow, the raging river of the solar flares
And unlocked Vatican vaults. I too am oversensitized,
To how the wind blows the caution tape like reins, and how
The hooves and shoes on the trail form shadows,
But it's peaceful, in this moment, and swollen with gold,
Even the dust swells the coffers of the heart, that grows
Like the sun in generosity -- but there's no word
In the silence which trail to take, or what to say
To anyone not in heaven, but one sees down
With more trepidation, for there's more work
Within to take on.
My brave innocence is not, however, without incident,
Like when two crows went overhead and spoke my name,
Noting my coordinates for galactic command.
Ah but that only richens the adventure! The hills
Have stayed the same, and only now it seems
That the nothing they have ever said
Is the only correct way to answer.
