At Times I Want to Ride

At times I want to ride a chestnut horse
over wide, undulating, endless steppes,
with hooves pounding out a staccato beat,
our heads lowered to enhance speed,
pointing toward the elusive white stag
ever within our sight, ever out of reach,
leading to verdant valley far away.

Years ago I only kept the gas tank half-full
in my ’72 Duster slant 6.
Great was the temptation to drive beyond
the mountains hazy with residual smog,
looming as I dropped from the 55
on slender concrete ribbon down to the
San Diego Freeway towards Irvine.
The time had not come for me to leave.

Now my life no longer fits into a car.
The white stag has blended into the mists
and I am content to be where I am.
Dismounting, I set the horse to pasture
and sit sheltered by the tall pine trees.

Arthur Turfa, Places and Times ©2015

 

Synopsis
At times I want to ride a chestnut horse over wide, undulating, endless steppes, with hooves pounding out a staccato beat, our heads lowered to enhance speed, pointing toward the elusive white stag ever within our sight, ever out of reach, leading to verdant valley far away. Years ago I only kept the gas tank half-full in my ’72 Duster slant 6. Great was the temptation to drive beyond the mountains hazy with residual smog, looming as I dropped from the 55 on slender concrete ribbon down to the San Diego Freeway towards Irvine. The time had not come for me to leave.
Although I have traveled far and wide, I am never far from the Monongahela Valley. I am a second-generation American; the Old Countries are never far from me. The wood, and hills, rivers and “cricks” have given me an appreciation for nature.