painting by Beverly Dyer
Blue Hooves
“Nevada is home to more wild horses than all the
other states combined.”--Jon Porter.
A family of mustangs,
a stallion,
two mares
and a colt
galloped along a dry river bed,
kicking up
dry acrid borax dust,
billowing beneath their unshod hooves.
They roamed the
southwestern Nevada foothills
as some of the last wild horses
in the country;
wearing no man’s brand,
unbroken,
unfettered,
free.
They were being chased
by out-of-work cowboys
in flat beds and pick ups;
one driver
bouncing over sagebrush
and prairie dog holes,
another poke in back of the truck,
whirling a blood-soaked lasso
over his head--15 feet
of rope lashed to an old truck tire.
The engines roared,
the cowboys whooped,
and the wicked lariats
hummed a lethal tune
as they sliced through
the cold morning air.
The black stallion was the fastest.
One of the mares kept up with him;
the other mare and the colt
were falling behind.
There was a pursuing truck
on each high side
of the river of sand
and a jacked-up Ram V-8
closing on the stragglers.
The stallion,
a veteran of these chases ,
was headed for a hidden arroyo
that was too narrow
for the trucks to follow.
The black Ram
pulled within throwing distance
and the wrangler tossed the singing loop.
It was a perfect toss,
settling around the neck of the mare.
The rope tightened
and the truck tire anchor
flew out the back.
The mare continued to run,
towing the tire
that jumped and dragged behind.
The colt was confused
and it tripped over the tire
and fell down
The angry Dodge crunched its brakes,
and skidded to a stop
as another rope found the yearling’s neck.
The drama played out,
always the same script,
man the victor,
horses choked by ropes .
The colt would become
some child’s first horse,
and the mare would take up residence
in a can of dog food.
Glenn Buttkus
Posted over at dVerse Poets Pub
11 comments:
What a brutal scene Glenn, and well presented. Makes one sad to see wild nature disrupted. Hard to fathom any wild horses roaming anywhere in this country, but I suppose a smart animal can still find freedom.
Very descriptive account. You would think they would rather have the truck than the wild horses.
This scene makes my heart ache. Where are all the wild horses today?
So well done with the drama of the wild horses Glenn. So distressing to see all become tamed, captured and utilized till the end.
for once why can't the horses win? humans are a foul bunch and we've earned whatever is coming
Blackthorne in a blue period! I love the way you’ve captured the movement of the unshod hooves and the freedom of wild horses, Glenn, ‘wearing no man’s brand’, which is as it should be – until I realised they were being chased. Nothing like the romance of cowboy films, the reality you portray in this poem is brutal.
I love your sad stark read of how we treat horses. The most beautiful horses are those who roam free on the Outer Banks of NC.
You've presented such a brutal scene, Glenn. Such a sad scenario. Piercing write!
Oh the game isn't even any longer... in Blackthorne it would be man using his skill and not his gasoline force... the brutal end of the mare is chilling...
I was hoping you'd choose that one and you didn't disappoint! Made me sit on the edge of my seat rooting for the horse. I felt privileged to see wild horses near Grand Junction, Colorado. So majestic.
Visceral writing. I can just play at the scene in my head. Those poor horses!
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