Sailing across a field on a machine of pure iron
He carries your weight as though,
you were merely a fly on his shoulder.
Pulsing in your veins echos the thunder, of each
consecutive hoof as it strikes the Earth in turn.
The wind taring at your skin.
Your eyes water painfully with its vengeance.
The land fly's by in fades of greens and blues
Time stands still and the world tips on end.

©  Crystal Erickson