The Dream of Horses

Three horses trudge
the heavy water,
and unless they drown
they’ll reach the other side—
black nostrils flared,
foaming transformation;
spitting, coughing
the residual spume
of who they were.

They keep sick water
in their lungs and
hear it sloshing
in mid gallop.
All prick their ears
in rapt alert
listening, hoping
the sound should come
from something else.

And on they go
snorting, wheezing,
carrying the river
like a stowaway.
Horses—no more,
but not yet whales,
they stall at the next bank,
ready to drink
but reluctant to swim.

If only they could be
taller than that river.