Standing in a valley hidden from mortal view,
Surrounded by the mist of legend.
The prying eyes of man wander here not.

My mind slips to a time when man roamed free.
Visions of ancient battles flood the imagination.

Silence my only companion,
I hear the rumbling of a distant storm.

The mist swells, buckles, churning,
As if I were in the midst of a witches cauldron.

Bursting forth, the thunder of hooves,
flagging tails, flaming manes.
I stand in the middle of the charging herd.

Disappearing as quickly as a whisper in the wind,
I am left alone with my thoughts.

Many call this fantasy.
I call it home.

Patrick Maxey
December 8, 2002