With rods, on roads, he rode through the dipped down dungy
mountains; down, and up, and across, and crossings, and crisscrossing, and
re-crossing them: riding in the deep shade of the towering ramparts of the
Andes alongside the peaked walls; on the other side a steep canyon below; in
front of him seemingly impossible and impassable slops, and sheer drops to the
watery abyss below. And above, the broad, blaze of the sun, and humming of the
wind, and the switch of wings of the condor. And with every stride of the
horse, pulsating death, a-breath away: ever falling and ever apparent to fall;
now warm air fanning his face, flowing over his skin, bathing him to sleep as
if by some phantom, —and with a faint,
flowing spirit, he closed his eyes, let the horse lead. And the horse fell,
stumbled, as if struck by an invisible blow, —all in one age-long second, to
death below…
5-15-2014 (No: 4951)
