Sitting, Wild

In meadows foreign and wild, 

Mother’s bullion jewel—my nose,

one-third splintered sole, 

two-thirds trident crown. 

Walking past wranglers 

who know how to rope sermons— 

this place, my home, 

on mountains that rise in 

my russet skin, my garment; 

moving slower than sound, 

huffing air, my heavy hooves 

bravely carving the earth. 

Marble eyes— 

in the river’s reflection,

brown as his

brown as the earth

before they cataract—

and watch phantoms

of celestials.

My father calls;

my hoofbeats answer.