Michael Brockley

A Personal History of Horses

Along Interstate 69 pale horses graze in a meadow that is being reclaimed by a scrub forest. I look for the herd whenever I drive to Indianapolis. The colts bucking in the tall grass and galloping on the promise of derby legs. In the schools where I work, Amish fathers speak of horsemen. Of men named Elmer and Menno whose dark horses remain calm when hitched to a post while the family shops for groceries. Horses that dip their heads to the dart and dare of children. In Don Quixote, Rocinante charges mourning priests at its knight’s command. Silver rears at the precipice of a cliff as the Lone Ranger races after dusty outlaws through a black-and-white tv landscape. During my trip to Indianapolis, a young palomino chases a white stallion across the meadow. The stallion cutting and doubling back to teach the young horse to be nimble and grand. The pre-flight secret to keeping all hooves off the ground. A trio of fillies glances at the game before returning to dandelions and clover. James Wright once stepped over a barbwire fence into such a blessing. Lady Ghost sleeps in that pasture. As I drive, I think about the horse songs of my youth. If Wishes Were Horses. Wild Horses. The quiet Beatle’s Dark Horse. And of the time I will ride into the desert on a horse with no name. Having spent my life pursuing the chestnut mare. 

Michael Brockley is a retired school psychologist who lives in Muncie, Indiana. His poems have appeared in Flying Island, Panoplyzine, amd Third Wednesday.