The Groove of the Run

Fifteen days till the mustang rests…

Wild Heart Scribe

As your day of judgment draws near,
anxiety straps me to its back
and runs away with me
like a bucking wild mustang.
Kicked up dust clods of dread
smack against my face
mingling with the unforgiving
sweat of ripe fright,
a frantic trickle down the front of my shirt
for every long-legged stride.
Nervous anticipation
jumps along the nerves
the tendons
the fibers
alive beneath my skin
until I think I can see it…
can’t you see it?
In the dead of night
the light of day
all the time
it is with me
herding itself deeper into
the groove of the run
as we ride the wet back of the
wild mustang as one.
When the gavel falls
will the mustang fall with it
as though the crack of
focused gunfire has stopped its heart?
Will relief finally wash over me
when someone declares the ride is done?

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