your soul is like a horse that tires
of the well-worn path to the trough
the same dry oats and brittle straw
the smell and gloom of a familiar stall
the muscles of your chest pressing
a little too hard on the top board
make today the day you don’t wait
for the open gate jump it
run through overgrown fields
under the dappled shade of summer maples
along your favorite river
past the last fence
till you hear it
in that cave with the spring
water calling for you
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