Painted Horse

The horse stands majestically, his head held high and tail out straight. His markings are not that of your ordinary horse. He is hand-painted; a beautiful Spanish village on one side and an idyllic flower garden on the other. The painted horse's mane is flowing in deep hues of purple and vibrant fuchsia flowers are woven throughout. As I gaze upon the Spanish village, I can see myself upon a hill where the terra cotta tile rooftops are all the eye can see in the forefront. The background contains breathtaking purple mountains. I can envision myself walking through the streets where a bazaar is being held. I stop at different venders along the way, purchasing freshly picked fruits and vegetables. The smell of just-baked bread draws me to the bakery. Further down the street, heavyset women with kerchiefs on their heads are selling jewelry and scarves of pure silk. The silk is cool to the touch, soft against my skin. A sudden breeze lets me know I am close to the pier where old men with weathered skin the color of coffee are unloading the days catch. It will be gutted and cleaned on the dockand sold within the hour to shoppers in the marketplace. As I turn the painted horse around I can practically smell the flowers pictured in the garden. The marble pillars there tell me the property belongs to someone of wealth. The manicured lawn and gardens are tended to regularly. As I look past the garden into the vast open land beyond, I see mysself upon the back of this painted horse, galloping across the land. The wind whips through my hair and every bveat of my heart matches the hoof beats of the horse beneath me. I am flying. I am free.