They run not upon the earth alone,
but across the bridge between worlds—
the road of stars,
where dreams remember their names.
Among the Lakota,
horses are not merely beasts of muscle and wind,
they are spirits,
carried to us by thunder,
given by the Sky People
so we might know what it means to fly without wings.
Wrapped within the circle of the dreamcatcher,
they are watched over by ancestors,
guided by the feathers of vision,
protected from forgetting
why they were born with fire in their lungs.
The great white mare and her foal
are not of this world only—
they are memories of the first horses,
those who galloped through the heavens
when the earth was still young
and the people still listened.
Below them, the herd charges forward—
not in fear, but in ceremony.
Their hooves echo across the canyon of time,
stirring the bones of warriors long gone,
reminding the living
that freedom is a sacred duty,
not a gift.
The Lakota, say:
the horse carries more than the rider—
it carries the prayers of the people,
the thunder of the past,
and the wind-song of the future.
So let them run.
Let their manes braid the sky.
They are the living dreams of those
who refused to kneel—
and every beat of their gallop
is a drum calling us home.
