Flowing Mane Poem by Nona Vaught

When the call-to-arms trumpet blows
Excitedly, he cannot stand still
Eager for the smell of battle
He impatiently quivers, shakes and
Fiercely paws the ground, repeatedly
With flowing mane he carries his rider
To the contentious valley below.
His bravery knows no boundaries
Great nostrils snort a lack of fear.
He rushes furiously into battle
Head-on to meet the conflict.
His rider's heavy weapons
Rattle at his side, suspended
He is strong and immensely swift.
He does not needlessly turn aside.
By some strange accident, his rider
Slips from his back, a lifeless form.
Retreat then, depart from the valley
Rhythm is smooth under the flowing mane.