War Horse

His coat is one of bronze,

Gleaming satin,

Highlighted by the light perfectly,

Better than Rembrandt.

Snow white graces the middle of his long, regal face, in a sweeping stroke that no brush could paint.

He stands proud, head high, beautiful.

Like the king of his own country be watches with prowess, dignity and regality.

A thick sweep of hair outlines his powerful neck, a flowing tail brushes down, sometimes held high like his flag.

It is thicker than the fine hair of Renoir's muse, softer than chenille, brighter than polished gold.

His hooves clatter and crash on the cobblestones in anticipation as the sound of the battle rises to him.

He is a war horse

Nostrils flared, eyes wide, he stands at attention.

Soldiers rush withy their rallying cries, cannons blast, muskets fire.

His friend appears now, in full uniform.

Navy coat, white breeches, peaked hat;

The crest of the king emblazoned on it all.

"The rebels have risen Triomphe, we go to battle now."

His friend throws the well tooled leather saddle onto his tall back.

The cool iron moves into his mouth, followed by leather straps across his well sculpted face.

His friend swings onto his back, and as he does, He rears back in ready excitement on his powerful legs, nostrils an eyes wide with eagerness

His friend laughs at His antics, but he knows the reasons.

He is ready.

He is a war horse.

The gallop to the battle with a full charge, musket slapping his shoulder.

The grey sky hangs low, ominous over the soldiers; those fighting, those dead.

At the sound of the cannons His hooves fly faster, spurred on by the power of the battle.

He feels the smacking against his side cease, then hears a crack overhead.

The are part of the battle now.

He knows his job, weaving between the mean who stand fighting, leaping the fallen.

He feels a pat on his sweat damp neck.

His does his job well, he loves the battle, the excitement, the power, the crashing iron, the sounds of blasts.

He is a war horse.

He catches a glimpse of a rider galloping in from the east, seated on a mammoth horse as black as the midnight sea.

He dances in place and His muscles tense, He must warn His friend.

As the rider comes closer His worst fears are realized.

The rider's clothing is to large for his small, starved frame, the cloth ragged, his horse more suited to plow than to battle: rebels.

Incompetent as they are, there is something formidable in their eyes, a raging fire.

They are fighters.

And they were ready to slaughter them.

He tries again, futilely, to warn His friend.

But His friend doesn't understand, he is absorbed in the battle.

The sudden shot rings out close by, followed by an immediate drop of weight from His back.

He knows what has happened.

He sees the black horse laughing with his tossed head, galloping his rider away, victorious in this small inner confrontation.

Just another fallen soldier, a hero they would say.

But not to Him. He has lost his friend, His partner.

He is a war horse

He has no time to stand and mourn, the battle rages on.

He is a fighter, He must continue.

He gallops through the chaotic scene, seemingly as if time has slowed, and life moved frame by frame.

The bullets flew towards Him, and passed him as if He was surrounded by shielding force of His own bravery.

They are screaming; for victory, for liberation.

Nothing can stop them.

They lunge at him, reaching for his broken reins, his loose flapping stirrups.

They all want a war prize, tangible spoils of their battle.

But he is proud, they will never demean him, they will never have him.

He is a war horse.

He fights them as long as he can, but He's no longer invincible.

He's exhausted, with barely the strength to go on.

He sees a flash if white, a flag.

But it's from His men!

How could they surrender, surrender to these raggedy rebels who had killed their friends, His friend?

The rebel men cry out with the joy of their victory, someone hoists a tattered flags with the stripes of red, white and blue.

He is defeated, head low, breathing rough, sweat soaked, broken reins trailing on he ground, majesty gone.

He sees a small boy run to a man, who picks him up as if he were as small as a rabbit and hugs him tightly.

But the boy wasn't paying mind to his father, he was looking directly at Him, mesmerized.

He returned the watchful eye, intrigued by the seemingly unfounded joy if the child.

The boy's father put him down, and slowly, cautiously he walked over, avoided the fresh battle made ruts in the ground.

The boy stood in front of him peering up in wonder.

He looked down his muzzle to the boy, the rebel boy, the rebels whom he should attack.

The boy's hand slowly reached up, lightly brushing he soft velvet of His muzzle.

He breathed out gently, air whispering against the small boy's hand.

"Vive la France," the boy whispered back, virtually inaudible over the victory songs,"Vive le cheval de guerre."