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Wild horses galloping across grassland, Florida, late afternoon sun, pine trees, palmetto trees. In the style of Frederic Remington, Oleg Stavrowsky, James Bama, Tim Cox. Hyperrealistic, hyper detailed, photorealistic, masterpiece, incredible composition, amazing depth, imposing, meticulously composed, high definition
I was standing at the edge of the trees because that’s where boys stood when they
were meant to be out of the way. No one told me to watch. The horses came through
the clearing the way things did then—without announcement, without reason to slow.
The sound was what stayed with me at first: hooves striking ground that hadn’t
learned yet to resist them. The grass folded and held the shape for a moment after
they passed.
At the time, it didn’t register as anything worth keeping. The land still worked that
way. You could walk for a mile without meeting wire. Posts were scarce, and the few
that stood leaned as if unsure of their purpose. Roads were suggestions more than
facts. The clearing was just a clearing, and animals crossed it because nothing told
them not to.
Years later, the first fence went in crooked, then was pulled straight. Survey stakes
followed, bright and temporary, until they weren’t. A road cut through where the
grass used to lie down after rain. The horses didn’t stop all at once; they simply
began turning earlier, then not coming at all. The ground changed underfoot—
packed, edged, named.
I’ve lived long enough to see the place break into pieces that don’t remember each
other. The trees still stand, but not together. The light still comes through, but it falls
on boundaries. What made that afternoon possible wasn’t taken away in a single
act; it was reduced, section by section, until there was nowhere left for it to occur.
The moment didn’t ask to be remembered.
The land no longer allows it to happen.
