By John Affleck
I remember that scent, something French spiked with big love. It cut through the dung, the dead water, stale beers and penetrated all the way up my enormous nose, just as it was reaching for more hay. Magic. The breeze must have helped it get there. A gift, a kiss on the wind.
I felt her warm hand on my flank, and there she was, the ballerina who rode me round and round. My head turned to nuzzle her. I lifted my foot but the chain wouldn’t give.
“Don’t worry, baby,” she whispered. “We’ll be free in that ring soon enough.”
What a wonderful ride, John. Thank you
Both sweet and sad. Lovely imagery John.