driving mustangs

winding back down the narrow road
twisting back and forth around the mesa

the once-burnt scrub thick with this springs
memory of green, twice burnt by late July

sunlight piercing both our eyes, when the mustang
gallop by unshod and wild. you watched them

filter back into the landscape, then you turn to me
an almost smile in your bright broken green eyes

the long gentle look goes on for more than
a proper moment. foolish, i feel it

you say, "they're so beautiful."
then you sigh.