The Squall by Mary Ellena Ward Dust. Dust and sullen heat. Acrid smell of sweat, horse and human. Clouds block the sun. Thunder grumbles. Wind lashes the trees, the dust, the heat. We take cover in the barn aisle, my horse and I, and watch the rain: a grey blur moving across the pasture, cold and fierce. Raindrops crater the dust. Wind drives through the aisle whipping my hair, my horse’s mane, smelling like rain. The squall moves on leaving a damp glaze on the barnyard. Beneath the damp, dust.
A Running Horse by Katsushika Hokusai Courtesy of the Smithsonian, gift of Charles Lang Freer
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Ilustration by Job Zheng
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