There are scars etched on the forest floor.
Left by the deer that walked before.
Peacefully.

Upon the plains the mustangs run free.
Free of reins and saddles as they pass.
As they flee the flailing arrows flung from bows.
Kicking heels.
Fractured grass and sand that blows.
Impressions in sand that go with the wind.
Faster than the mustangs.
Still free.
Unbridled.
Until they're broken by the men.
The men, they chase cows.
Corralled.
Fallen.
No longer free.
Oh to be a deer.
(c)LIVVI