Karis Wiggins

“This here is God, bragging on how he create the horse.” He cleared his throat and read aloud in a preacher voice. Who gives the horse its strength or clothes his mane with thunder? Who makes him spring like a locust? His splendid snort is terror. He churns up the earth, rejoicing in his power, And charges towards the clash of arms. He laughs at fear, afraid of nothing; He does not shy away from the sword. Over him rattles the quiver, the glittering spear and blade. In frenzy he devours the ground; He cannot stand still when the trumpet sounds. At the blast of the trumpet he snorts, “Hurrah!” And from afar he scents the fray, Hears the clamor of the captains, the battle cry. When he finished reading, he patted the page. “I think that’s mighty fine, don’t you?” Jarret ran the words through in his mind. “Clothes his mane with thunder,” he repeated softly. “That’s good. It makes you see the power in the neck. And the part about how he devours the ground, rejoicing in his strength. It feels just that way some time. But I don’t know about being afraid of nothing. Most horses I know are afraid of plenty.” “Well, the Scripture here is talking about war horses. I guess they’s trained to be brave.” “That ain’t it. A cavalry horse will charge a cannon because he don’t know the cannonball can kill him. All he wants is to stay close to the rest of the herd. Army just learned to use that fear they have, of being left behind.” “Well,”
― Geraldine Brooks, Horse