Gushing through free space,

a grand tornado on fire,

a great parable of tremulous power

unfolds, in magic grandeur, in spasms

of muscular fire, confluents,

engraves, assembles, projects,

the fierce art of equine grace,

solely, for your subtle gaze.

Note~ I have used “confluent” as a verb, a liberty I have taken here. This poem is dedicated to Russell Pilot a posteriori. His comments made me add more details and the horse developed wings and almost became a centaur. Oh! This is a parable and I should have kept silence. But I presume that the verse still has some validity.