The Havoc

Late on an August day, I fled as a storm was coming, clouds converging on the wind, down a forest road until I came upon a rocky field.  The sun, lowering on the bay, was asserted still on stones and trees and grass,  and mostly on the flesh of a white stallion; it seemed to source beneath its mud-caked hide.  And mirrored on a dusky pool that trembled in the heat of earth-bound breezes, the sun reared, lean and muscular, as a horse.

And all the wind became a whinny-- now two-- and a night-black mare, as though in tune with the atmosphere, and expectant of the stallion's rush, quaked on the heat-parched ground and slapped her hooves against the pebbled sod. As if spurred by Nature-music, the stallion was transformed into a Thrust-- a wedge against the flesh of mare, who had become All-Terror.  He peeled her from the landscape, plunged, nipped her neck.  She shunned.  Provoked by her escape, he regrouped, lunged.

And lastly, when the mare, conspiring, moored her flanks against the stud's descent, Earth and sky were horses coupled; the storm foretold in a nostril snort.

Miles away, a torrent surely blacked the sea, and made a mixture vexing coughing fish and troubling stupid eyeless clams choking on the squall.  Here, horse love was all that railed against my skin; horse lust and the quirk of chance that sent me here and let me in.

I left them there to merge with night: a neigh and a suspended glow.  I did not want to go, but it was time.  And now, it seems you only see the Havoc once or not at all.