Her heart was made out of wild horses.
No one could control the herd that ranged
from one end of the continent to the other, spreading
like fire through wood and grass
and grain. Their genes
passed from horse to horse, every year
stronger and more bewildered, more wildered.
This one was black, this
pinto, these were the sounds
of hunting, these the marks
reins made generations before.
Places no horses could go
the heart went.
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