Day 64 of 100 Poems/100 Days

The Flock

The horses,
weaving through the trees,
morning fog,
the boy, bareback,
I think naked.

The rider is the passenger,
accompanied by his means.

They flocked,
from corner
to the other,
along the black mud.

I watched,
as he guided them with a stick,
never slapping them,
just pointing it, forward, straight,
“More”, he said – “To the horizon”
“More”, he said – “Out and away”
“More”, he said – “Faster, faster, faster please!”

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