The title of H. Schlagen’s ink painting caught my eye: And the air turned to poison.
You can see the art work here
When power and grace are not enough or muscled poise, uncon-
scious elegance of the perfectly formed, when the ropes pull tight
and the trap snaps closed, the bridle and bit strap and tear, bright
blood and pain shooting, where is the escape? Horses balk and
rear, pawing the dust, and we gag on the fumes of SUVs and
phones and an ocean of smoking junk, torment and despair.
We send space probes to ride comets, bridle and bit, cocorico
cheering, but where do we go when the air has turned to poison?