storm clouds frighten the horses
because they're  bigger than houses,
and the wild beasts know
men are only visitors here,
like animals and wild oats
that grow from sand dunes.

even the spit of land rooted in
is temporary,
awaiting the next storm
that blows through -
grains will come loose,
attracted to one another
by weakest of forces;
permanence just an illusion
created by maps that men
pretend to read.

angry water can boil earth
in swirling pools of froth.
men aim to tame them -
the horses and the water -
fenced in by thin pickets
and wishes thinner yet -
the waves never notice;
scared beasts know this,
but men never learn.