The Horses

We top the mountain going seventy miles an hour and look away into the new vista away west and see that the hills below and to the north are cleared pasture and horses how many horses –  fifty – dot the hillside so far away as not to notice the blur and whoosh of the highway they move in the distance as if in slow motion a flick and shiver of the tail a toss of mane wearing colors from where from where and patterns that occur nowhere else in nature and nowhere else at all – roan, palomino, appaloosa, bay. . .

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