I hang my hat on pegasus, seven-studded constellation
winks at me from winter skies,
close enough to touch with one eye closed;

cloud breaths, his nostrils, and far away
Orion, who might swing aboard,
ride into summer

gallop the pleiades.

My ancestors hover among the burning suns,
come to ground, materialize, as Pegaus would
if he was not
prisoner of some Greek deity

that smashed a stallion's essence
into the asphalt sky like roadkill;

winged horse broken,

flakes of snow like feathers

fall on my lips.

 

 

Tigger Montague lives on a farm in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia with a variety of horses, ponies, dogs, cats, and two wolves. It is Nature and the intricate balance of subtleties and piercings that inspire his daily life, his writing, and his soul. Tigger writes: "When the wind speaks, I listen; when the wolves howl, I howl too."

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