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pronghorn
by
Dennis Fritzinger
i am
a pronghorn, a pronghorn, a
pronghorn--
i am
a pronghorn, running along
at
70 per--
from
my hooves to my fur
i'm
swift as the wind
and
brisk as a song.
my
home is the spaces wide and
immense--
nothing
to stop me, no road and no
fence;
my
legs are a blur
at
70 per;
it
seems like i'm keeping all time in suspense.
but
then,
something
erected by men
stops
me with a jolt;
no
more thunderbolt,
i'm
as tamed as if i was penned up in a pen.
and
the fire in my eyes, the
unquenchable fire,
dims
for a moment and then flashes
higher--
what
right! do they have
to
make me a slave,
with
fences and roads, to their whim and desire?
and
i drop to my knees,the
swiftest of all,
and
i crawl
under
the barbed wire of the fence
that
cut into pasture my spaces
immense,
an
inch at a time--how the mighty do fall!
i,
who was wind; i, who was fire--
reduced
to a remnant of what was
desire,
four-legged,
running free
across
the prairie--
i
never thought this was how i'd retire.
i
was a pronghorn, a pronghorn, a
pronghorn--
i
was a pronghorn, running along
at
70 per--
from
my hooves to my fur
i
was swift as the wind
and
brisk as a song. |
Dennis
Fritzinger is Lowbagger.org's resident poet.
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