Chub and Nig

by Terri Glass

When I entered the old barn
full of planks and stalls,
hay bales and wooden beams,
I had a sense they were there-
the sturdy work horses that
use to plow my grandpa's field.
Their harnesses still hanging on
the walls like huge stiff collars.
Their bin for hay I use to fill
hoping for their return
into full length haunches,
wild chestnut manes, and white burly hair
cascading down their thick hooves.
I swear I could hear their whinny
and see the curl of their lips.
Then I would climb onto one of their broad backs
and gallop into the field of
wild roses and Queen Anne's lace.
For a moment I was riding the wind
like Annie Oakley, bareback and laughing
as the spirit horse was free as me,
no longer plowing the fields,
no longer anyone's slave.