Chincoteague Island, 1989.

I'd like to believe the one where Spanish galleons
crash off the Virginia coast and hundreds of horses
rock the waves in their yellow, foamy manes.

Or, at least enough of the legend to tie pony to water
to pedal. I was a little girl in the hotel feeding sugar
cubes to a domesticated colt out of the well in my

palm. There was wooden fence all around the island
until we reached the bridge that carried us, automobile
and camera, through the wild fields and hooves marking

duned beach. Every year the animals are rounded up, pricked
into the bay and forced to swim nearer the auction. For a minute
after splash, when the backs appear like reefs in the water,

the horses break for the shore, salted and sunned,
their tails blooming in the current, bodies weightless
and born as their first spill.