I come from the snow

and the plains.

Land of the Meadowlark

and Goldenrod.

A child of late Spring,

water turning into air.

I have green eyes,

wild and kind.

And a sharp tongue,

I’m not always proud of.

There’s too much smoke in my lungs

and stardust in my brain.

I’m from a small city,

that felt big back then.

Bordered by rivers

and farmland.

Summers of Cicadas,

with trains in the background.

I’ve never ridden horses.

But I have a feeling inside of me

a thought, or a drive

that if I locked eyes with a wild 

Mustang, he would let me onto his back,

and we would know what to do

with shared intuition.

Keep running.