The Rider
A sparrow turns its head.
Quivering, the vigilant forest edge
yields to a gathering unease
the thump of approach.
Hooves stamp the hilltop.
A triumphant tossing of mane, a steamy huff.
The Rider, wheeling the great beast about,
surveys the foggy terrain he has crossed.
Silence reclaims itself.
He thinks.
This man knows nothing of Parliament or Congress,
matches or ballpoint pens. Electricity is gibberish.
Air the exclusive domain of feathers.
Television, centuries hence.
Yet the Rider knows two things
as well as you and I do.
Love and the lack of it.
© Ciprianowords Inc. 2006
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