She rides the chestnut mare across the wild hay meadow. Her gaze takes her to the trees and the remnants of her father’s youthful memories.
The grass is deep. No longer belonging to the summer harvest, the wind ripples across the expanse of the once cherished feed. Now left to the seasons and nourishing the creatures who come to enjoy its bounty.
The wings are visible. Old, weathered morsels left behind to pay homage to the moonlit hunt. Her mind allows the story to unfold. Playing out the details of chasing wild horses her Dad has shared. The tales of young men in search of new mounts. A way of life from not so long ago, yet slowly being forgotten.
Jack Pine pole wings guide them into the funnel opening of the corral. Held in the stronghold, wild-eyed, snorting, blowing. Squeals of defiance fight the ropes settling around sweating, heaving necks.
The meadow sings their song. The wild horses and the young men who prized their capture. The flight taking them both to the outreaching wings of the wild horse corral. Their memory plays on the imagination of those who ride the wild hay meadow and find the weathered remnants. Taking the journey back in time. Reminiscing the tales of the young at heart as they tell of the hooves flying high under the moon.
Author, Photographer, Lover of Life
"Capturing moments others may never get to experience."