Elongated shadows stretch across the ground,
their grasp bidding us to hurry home,
to hasten towards our hearth before night falls completely,
immersing all in darkness, save the dimness of the moon.
That's when worries crease our brows even deeper
and fear appears with its silky smooth glint,
a glimpse of what might become reality —
one never knows when survival may call upon us,
a reckoning for what we've taken for granted,
for what we've neglected to notice lurking in the alleys
as we rush towards our destinations with blinders on.
Tunnel vision is not always an advantage
when it affects our security.
Horses know this instinctively and rely on senses
other than their vision which distorts small things into giants,
causing them to rear up in anguish and desperate fright,
hefty hooves descending with great force
upon that which brought about their anxiety.
There is danger in the pastures, the earthen roads,
the barn where they sleep fitfully, standing and ready
to break through the stalls and run, their manes a flurry as they pass.
Their eyes glow with a wildness we seem to have forgotten,
yet should always have remembered. Whispers will not lessen
their significance, nor will these valleys be breached by silence or shouts.