standing in a valley hidden from mortal view,
surrounded by the mist of legend.
the prying eyes of man wander here not.
my mind slips to a time when man roamed free.
visions of ancient battles flood the imagination.
silence my only companion,
i hear the rumbling of a distant storm.
the mist swells, buckles, churning,
as if I were in the mist of a witches cauldron.
bursting forth, the thunder of hooves,
flagging tails, flaming manes.
I stand in the middle of the charging herd.
disappearing as quickly as a whisper in the wind,
I am left alone with my thoughts.
many call this fantasy.
I call it home.
Patrick Maxey
December8,2002
