A wind from the mountain
swirled in misty billows of silver
swept down the arroyos of time,
And left us lonely.
And on that wind came Wind Walker.
Fleet of foot he was
Silver as a mountain mist
Head thrown high to taste the rain
His hooves struck fire from the shifting sands.
We watched, enthralled
As he came near
and standing just beyond our grasp
he blew softly through flared nostrils.
Like music he moved
Like wildfire flowing across the horizon
Spirit of freedom on four legs
Oh, we tamed him,
Bound him with cords
Placed fetters upon his neck
And tied him to a plow.
We bred him to meet our needs
Until he ranged from huge and slow
To a diminutive toy fit only for a household pet
But shape and bind as we would
Wind Walker will never be completely bound
Thoroughbred
Lipizzaner
Tennessee Walker
Secretariat
Dan Patch
Seabiscuit
In back lots and modest pastures
The seed of Wind Walker reflects his glory.
The proud tilt of a head
The staccato rhythm of ebony hooves
And where the spirit soars
Wind Walker lives.
Donna Swanson c.2002
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