All the Wild Horses In my dream, night horses appear; they stand in a courtyard, tall, sleek coated, they gallop feverishly through arches, uncover meanings that mystify me. They rouse me in my dreaming to listen to some kind of sign in their movements; they rush into a horizon I don't recognize. They are striding back toward the beginnings of this rough-hewn tale they're a part of through the lost canyons of their home. I who lived without song or deliverance, who perhaps ignored the signs they gave me, take the direction now as a sort of salvation. 'They frisk their manes, stand on their hind legs, pawing, wild, impossible to saddle and ride. They whinny in the near distance, relaying the futility of my pursuing them, I'm left following dim echoes. Their clattering hooves send out a code.
About the author
RC James lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. Previously, he lived in South America for twenty years and has a bilingual volume of his poetry and photographs at the Biblioteque Nacional de Colombia. He has works at Sonic Boom, Thimble, Flashes of Brilliance, and Open Door Poetry Magazine. Presently he’s abiding by the restrictions of the quarantine, writing and playing blues guitar.