The Rider

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There was no saddle, as he gently nudged the horse forward – his favorite, the black and white, long mane so graceful. He shifted slightly, as he looked up and in one magnificent motion, they lunged – attacking the hill, the horse snorting his approval.

They aimed for the ridge, passing the pine trees and spruce. The smell overcame his leather. Higher and higher they climbed, with the muscles of the horse rippling, straining, hooves digging into the earth and rock.

And then they were at the top, where the large oak was on fire with yellow and red. And the eagle waited patiently in the oak, as he had promised. But it was the hawk that gently landed on his  shoulder, that encouraged him the most.

It was then that the poet knew, he was home again.

      

Poetry and Image © Copyright 2016, Ancient Skies

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