Pony Poems and Prose

King of the Horses

A front hoof strikes a challenge. I hold my breath as the stallion made from puffy white clouds tosses his head.

My mount, a shifty old bay, leans away from the stallion, telling me he wants no part of the battle the stallion is signaling.

I take in every rippling muscle, every tensed tendon.

His tail swishes in annoyance. He wants a fight. He wants my mount to make a move to take his harem of mares. I know that if we give him that, he will surely fight to the death with my horse. Surely, he will win.

His seven girlfriends, all grazing behind him, take no notice. The horse is like a defendant boy, protecting all the girls he likes. Except for the fact this boy is a fierce stallion on the range and all his girls are mares. His daughters and even his mother graze behind him as well. His only sons, two long legged gawky yearlings, stare at their father trembling before him.

He screams another challenge. The stallion isn’t a bloodthirsty beast; he is a simple range stallion, wanting to be the only dominating male. To do that, even my old stallion must fall.

“Goodbye.” I call. “Goodbye, King of the Horses.”