Midnight Rider

This is psychological. In a dream
that is not a dream I rise from

my blankets and there are wolves
blackened faces, wire-like fur,

their light-soaking eyes follow me
to the field where we keep horses.

A two year old quarterhorse I raised
myself, anticipates our midnight rides,

his long slender legs, thick muscled
neck, beautiful velvet nostrils

blowing ice-cold mist. And here
we are, species who could not be

more different. Here beneath
the blackened sky, the moon

a jealous spectator we gallop
and fly like a single organism

clinging to eachother.


matt at shadow of iris said...

This is very mysterious, like we're at the beginning of a story of some sort. I didn't want the poem to end!

Rachel Phillips said...

Thank you Matt! Your comments are very uplifting!!