Yet another poetic rambling courtesy of my alter ego "Shakespeare 'The Equine.'"




The Call


I heard a cry
Upon the breeze,
It leapt and glanced
O’er grass; through trees.
It was a song
Unto my ears,
Meant very little
To my peers.
It mattered not
To them, you see
This clarion call
That came for me.
A voice as sweet
As any heard,
One might of thought
It was a bird.
The sweetest bird
That ever sang
Whose tune for me
Alone it rang.
Its lyrical notes
Upon the air,
My darling Scribe
Entreating “Bear!”


It’s a moment of magic when the Scribe calls my name.

It doesn’t matter if I’ve been turned out five minutes or five hours, when I hear her call me I cannot resist. Her voice is the Siren -- I must follow it to the warm pat and tempting carrot that awaits.

Sam, my paddock mate, is jealous. He always wants to hone in on my girl. She brings him a treat as well so he doesn't feel left out, and this makes him reasonably content. However, occasionally he'll crowd the gate as I'm leaving and give me a playful nip on the bum as if to say, “Way to go, buddy!” He's such a kidder ...

Yes, it's hard to resist the call ... except when I just want to be left alone with my muzzle buried in a patch of fresh spring grass. But that's another story ...

See you next time in Poet's Paddock!

Shakespeare "The Equine"

All rights reserved. Copyright Aimwell Enterprises 2011

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