From birth they run

with instincts of wild ponies,

free of shoes and stockings,

dashing randomly through trees.


They too have been warned

of broken glass, gravel,

burrs, scorpions, yet

they scatter without warning,

galloping after an uncertain scent.


They cut heels, smash toes, anything

for the pleasure of bare skin

against grass, mud, tree bark,

rain puddle, cutting snow,

bound only by their urge

to scamper unshod and unshoed.


Neither reason nor fear

will deter these descendants

of satyrs and unicorns.


Reason turns them into stones;

fear into swans with no water.



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