The mustang itches for moisture.

His nostrils search
for a whiff of thunder cloud.

A red clay coat cloaks his body
accented with a shipwreck of ribs.

He stares at rock-strewn terrain.­

Acacias, parched as the stallion,
have long lost their leaves
and bared their thorns.

He bends his neck to locoweed,
snorts, not beguiled by its clutch
of purple flowers now blue in death.

Slender ears prick for the thud of hooves.

He harbors the sense
of velvet rumps bumping,
of a herd where a horse
can rest his chin
on another’s neck.