Creative WritingNonFiction
THE WISDOM OF HORSES
Horses are fierce, loyal and committed.
They give us tremendous gifts,
If only we allow ourselves to be open to them.
In a field cloaked in darkness they come to me.
I hear them before I sense them. Three soft shapes materialize from the depths of shadow to orbit me as if
I were the earth and they the moon...
HORSES OF THE SUN As published in The Nemadji Review
The Greek word for horse is “ikkos,” which means “the great light.”
I dream again of wild horses with windswept manes. There are grays and bays, chestnuts and blacks – every color of the equine kaleidoscope galloping freely across waving grasslands and open desert. I have dreamt of them since I was a little girl...
WILD AND FREE
Mile after mile goes by, marked by two wheels humming on pavement, heat radiating off the engine, keeping me warm on a cool morning in North Dakota. We stayed last night in Devil’s Lake, arriving just as the sun went down. And now, headed south on Highway 20, we are surrounded by water on both sides. Skeletal trees rise up from the fog-enshrouded lake, ghost trees that were on dry land only a decade ago...
WILD HORSES, WILD HEART: An Interview with artist Kimerlee Curyl
If we see cruelty or wrong that we have the power to stop and do nothing,
we make ourselves sharers in the guilt - Anna Sewell, author of Black Beauty.
Through the dust kicked up by dozens of hooves an image materializes, a mirage of freedom as dozens of horses gallop across the Utah landscape. I can almost feel their hooves strike the sunbaked earth, smell the saltiness of their warm bodies and see the distended nostrils as they drink of the wind. Photographer Kimerlee Curyl’s images of wild horses are dramatic and evocative. One cannot help but lose themselves in her reflections of beauty and wildness...
AN
EARLY
SNOW
I stand beneath a somber sky and breathe deeply the smell of damp jack pine and tamarack. Snowflakes drift lazily to light in my hair and upon my shoulders. I let them accumulate like a cold blanket and look up into the darkening sky. They melt on my eyelashes and cheeks like tears. An early snow, the needles still cling to the tamarack, glowing golden in the fading light...
