Mustang Folly

They were a beautiful herd of horses. Mustangs, nearly a hundred of them. They’d roamed free for more than a century. Officially, they were feral horses, their ancestors once lived a fettered existence.

Wyoming. There was ample grazing, streams, and lakes. A playful lot of equines with colors ranging from white, brown, a dozen or so roan, black with white spots and vice versa. They often ran for an hour or more at a time and engaged unfrequented terrain.

It was on just such a bolt the herd took off. The weather was crisp, with a mild cool breeze, and a cloudy sky overhead. The run made their powerful muscles taut with effort and their commendable stamina carried them for two hours, into unfamiliar land.

There was a narrow pass with a 10-foot drop which they all easily navigated. Once through, the pass expanded out into a large plateau extending for a mile or so. Approaching a cliff, their run had concluded.

They sought out water. Just a sip, really, to refresh their lathered condition before heading home.

There were cliffs on one side, an unnavigable rock wall on another, and the path from whence they came now an insurmountable 10-feet up! There was no other way. Even the best attempts by the mustangs yielded jumps that were several feet too short. All the mustangs had by now become aware that there was no water available. They would soon all realize there was no way out.

There was plenty of shade, but tomorrow would be another story. Vultures had already begun to congregate with an uncanny anticipation. An engorging like this comes but not often enough.

-klem
4/2009