The Storm Horse

The wind howled against the windowpanes.

His hooves pounded against her chest.

Each step rattled the earth, shook her soul.

He thundered up the hill, nostrils flared,

Short, labored breath.

They charged across powdery landscape.

It moved with them.

They were one, plowing through

Snowdrifts and muddy cow-trails.

Speckled brown and white,

Fleabitten grey

Fuzzy, coat reflecting

Glistening white landscape beneath him.

Each snapped branch against the jolted house,

Like a heavy weight ridden footstep of the big horse.

A loose curl fell upon her neck;

Like the soft snuffle and his whiskers

Warm breath.

The bed quivered beneath her

Her knees ached,

Reminiscing the bitter air

Cold pressure against the saddle leather.

Cold, metal irons, wrapped around her boots

Her breath quickened as the noises increased

And the wind blew harder

It matched his labored breathing up the hill.

His muscles quivered

She could feel his weight as the house shook.

She could feel the hard, stiff leather between her fingers,

The power they retained,

The small riding crop pressed in her palm,

The movement of his stride.

She controlled it. A branch cracked.

The house shook.

His eyes challenged the horizon

He glared at its fireside glow.

The sun was setting

With tender care he picked his way through

The slippery snow

She trusted the warhorse.

Unlike the unforgiving wooden posts

Of the swaying and billowing house

Where she sat.

The ride was long.

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