They say wild horses roam all through the hills around here. I only see one: a red-brown mustang skirting the sagebrush. Behind me, my father’s motorcycle sputters back to life. We eye each other jealously, that horse and I: he on his side of the fence and I on mine.
Sticking with my favorite micro format for the fiction|poetry grid, but settled on 50 words instead of the old 42. Inspired by this week’s prompt up.