Runaway Horses
written by: Ingrid Bruck
On a September evening,
the moon has a tight lipped grin.
It’s black night by eight-thirty
when a racket rises in the fields next door.
Peeling the last of a bushel of tomatoes
outside on the lit back porch, I hear a loud,
“Whoa. Whoa.” The farmer orders
his wagon team to halt.
The wagon continues its downhill charge.
Iron wheels clatter & clang.
Next a shouted demand of “Whoa. Whoa.”
The piercing answer in snorts & squeals.
More commands of “Whoa. Whoa.”
Clanks, grates & thuds accelerate.
No turn into the farmyard to unharness.
Two screams from a little girl.
Six careening steeds roar & squeal.
Loud clip-clops move closer.
Then the clashcrashsmash of collision.
The runaway wagon stops.
Silence whips the darkness.
I breathe again when a man speaks
& replies come in grunts & whinnies.
More calm demands of “Whoa. Whoa.”
More people emerge to pick up pieces,
they drag, heap & chunk piles of metal.
Work horses nicker intermittent complaints.
Testimony of life on a farm.
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- Ode to Ron - November 21, 2024
