Real Horses

The horses on the common 
stand
backsides to the wind
for hours, half-sleeping
lost in some deep reverie
filled with memories of 
mare’s milk and sunshine
the smell of summer hay
and everything is still

until an ancient piebald flips
and then they all stampede
scattering the crows
as if they have a need 
for momentary madness
to buck and kick the dust
go wild sometimes
just enough to feel 
like real horses