We move together,
dust rising
from our hooves of ink,
across the wide plain of silence.
The grass bends,
and we bend with it,
feeding on syllables,
grazing on breath.
Each of us carries a fragment,
a line, a rhythm,
but the herd is the poem entire.
We are restless,
never still for long,
seeking fresher pastures of meaning,
waterholes of wonder.
The land needs us,
and we need the land.
Without the field, we starve.
Without the herd, the field lies fallow.
So we thunder on,
poets and poetry,
a single body,
a living chant,
a migration of voices
across an endless plain.
.