Wild Horses Drink from the River of History

Hours before dark, I follow the stony path
from the parking lot to the river bank. 
Along the shore I look for crushed branches and trampled grass,
the clearing where wild horses are said to appear.
Then, I hide behind a mesquite tree, hold my breath.
I want to know their secrets.

Finally the mares and foals emerge from the woods
and stand, ankle deep, among the dense reeds.
At once the entire herd bows their heads,
laps the cool water, takes the river into themselves. 

If I were brave, if I’d forget 
to move past the brokenness of my own family,
I’d approach these unclaimed, unnamed creatures.
I’d stroke their brown manes, 
feed them sugar apples and snow peas.
We’d share one fearless story.

Now the Mustangs dig their feet under the tall grass.
I step forward, snap a few pictures,
as if the camera could capture 
when my unsettled heart and theirs became one.
Overhead, the whir of helicopter blades
cuts through a questioning sky.

Suddenly there’s a thousand echoes,
galloping hooves ringing over badlands.
I turn and look back to the river
which flows on, relentlessly, carrying with it
every story of who or what has come and gone.

And the sun sets, dropping behind the mountain,
leaving a blue ridge, a dimming thread of gold.
I get into my car, head up switchbacks
that lead me to the open highway and down towards the city
where lights shimmer like the past of distant stars.