Godfrey’s imagination was indeed, unbridled, how he loved sunrise, even the cold, “Bloustrious” ones.
Why do dung beetles look to the sky? I asked Godfrey as we left the house at dawn.( Expecting an answer typically odd) “Perhaps, he said, as I do, they look for horses in the sky, when storm clouds come loping by” Looking up as we reached the bus stop, happy as a working dung beetle I, for high above us, came the horses of the late summer sky. In from the east, waiting patient for night to roll up in her warm cloak, and welcome light. Steel grays, perfect coats of pinto, Appaloosa, strawberry and blue roan, there were golden mares, tails flying, and dark, brooding stallions out on the herds fringes, standing alone.
“Sky horses, we observed, do not hurry down the valley, but drift, close to the water silently.” “only those, like us who get out early, see the sky horses, they are shy, yet know the moon and stars intimately” Soft thud of hooves- it is only my heart beating, light mist the dew shaken from shaggy locks and manes. Brush tail foals of a new day, race each other oer the sky plains.
“Oh, my, how silly, says Godfrey, we have missed the #50 bus, swept past us as we watched the mustangs scudding by. Roans and Appaloosas were first ones to fade into the day. Across the bay, beyond the mountains, we at last heard growing thunder, of hooves on stone, a farewell neigh.
No longer bothered, Godfrey and I, of perceived obligation or urgency, for it was Tuesday, a day to write of sky horses over coffee. A glance at his purple notebook, as he swiped a pumpkin donut from me…”I am son of a son of a silvery fish” “A Fluviophile born, I will always be” Of course, but that is yet another story…