by Sarah Wilton
They greeted the Dodge
like one of their own
barelling down the cliffside
like fevered sea
they salt licked us madly
and their wiry hairs stood tallest to
the sun
though we towered over their hairdos
we call 'horns'
kind of like some Victorian heiress.
So full of grace and poise,
I extended one finger to touch her
brocade flank.
Tried to show him
the most beautiful place on Earth
but the sun did not
make it through his pupils,
he did not sing like the crickets
or move like the Clearwater River.
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