 | 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. |
The wind in their faces, the full moon above. Always upwind of the unsuspecting herd feeding in the quiet, illuminated darkness at the meadow’s edge. Spooked to a dead run by the young men moving ever closer. The fleeing sound of pounding hooves, branches snapping, voices yelling. Escaping the open to the trusted sanctuary of the trees, only to face barriers built by those pushing from behind.
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.
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.
Not all will have made the journey into the trees and down the wings into the unexpected, camouflaged pen. Some will not run to the trees, eluding the riders and capture. Some will have been here before, their wiles tested, not to be repeated. They are the ones to run free along the meadow’s edge, under the moonlit night. Never to feel the tug of the rope.
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.
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.
Carrot Ranch Flash Fiction Prompt - August 3, 2017 - write a story using sound.
Ann Edall-Robson
Author, Photographer, Lover of Life
"Capturing moments others may never get to experience."
Author, Photographer, Lover of Life
"Capturing moments others may never get to experience."
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