Old Peigan man spun his tale.
There was no holding him once he got started:
“There are wild horses in Alberta
down by old military base
Suffield, yes, that’s it. Wild
raggedy range with few trees,
summer heat that would send
anything to few pools and rivers
that slither coolly through rattlesnake country.
They come from earlier years when Blackfoot
and early pioneers paused and lost
a mare, here, a stallion, there,
but they found each other
clinging to rock croppings
on brush cut grassy land.
Once, half-wild,
then mostly feral, they eventually fell into care
after decades of natural selection,
now, they would be culled,
like people that roamed that land were placed
in paddocks called reserves to be managed better.
Generations, later, grazing equines became sport;
chased across rough terrain at full gallop,
rope thrown around a neck
to be brought to a jarring stop ~
stretching wildly for air..
fighting tether to its death.
In Sundre, horses are getting shot
by people who can not tell moose from stallion
where not even a native would be entirely safe
at a two thousand dollar reward per head.
Frightening is the term Interlopers,
once farmers have better saddles to ride
on better land.”
Words came galloping out of his mouth,
shook themselves off and headed
every damned direction.
Author notes
Option #3.
In a list
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Comments
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Touching
I like this.. I don't know if you saw the movie Spirit.. but this poem is like that movie.. shows a land that once was.. to be wrecked and made "comfortable"..
I know it's been ages since i've stopped in.. hope all is well..
Take care, again great poem
-Tiger
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so sad that this is the reality that these horses are faced with. The Suffield herd was sold off, however, there is a group that is trying to maintain the bloodlines intact by registering them as Suffield horses. The senseless slaughter of the Sundre herds still continues. I've seen many of the Sundre wild horses first hand. I've ridden all over that country. It is absolutely appalling that there are people out there just shooting them for sport. This isn't hunters that mistake them for moose, it's some sick SOB that is intentionally hunting them. A very good poem on a topic dear to me. Well done.
Rory
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