At the edge of the morning,
they shimmer—
stripes stitching and unstitching the plain,
a restless river of black and white dreams.
Each hoof prints a fleeting map
on the dust that forgets
and the wind that remembers.
Ears tilt toward the unseen,
eyes catch the flick of a tail,
the shiver of tall grass.
One movement,
and the whole herd breathes
as one striped body,
woven from silence and alertness,
grace and fear.
The sun climbs.
The herd drifts forward—
a mirage made real,
a secret pattern
only the poet can read.
Ooh, that’s good. I really like the last stanza.
Beautifully penned, LDF. Really dig your use of imagery my friend. Appreciate you.
Damian