Harold Roy Miller
Riding up in the pinions that cover the high land,
I came upon a wild mustang band.
There were six rangy horses grazing out there,
counting the stallion and the lead mare.
I stopped and stared at the beautiful sight.
There were four bays, a roan and one black and white.
The big muscled stallion stood perched on a rise
and he followed my every move with his eyes.
Then somehow he signaled to the lead mare
in a language that only wild horses can share.
She turned and led the herd up a winding trail
and her movement broke my hypnotic spell.
I admired their surefootedness and survival skills
as they followed the boss mare up the rocky hills.
The stallion was last as he brought up the rear;
a protective maneuver, and not out of fear.
It was an inspiring scene to watch the band flee,
but a wistful, melancholy feeling overwhelmed me.
The mustangs, like the cowboy, symbol of the old west,
drifted into the sunset and vanished over the crest.