The horseman rides.
He rides through valleys of smoke and hills of shadow.
He rides through empty cities of gray concrete and twisted metal.
He rides into the barren plains until they are no longer barren and suddenly, life is all around him.
He rides, onwards, onwards, towards a small town nestled between a stand of pines
And the sea.
The dunes are windswept and worn away.
The plants hold them down against the sea.
In the town, the houses are small and storm-battered, storm-battened.
The people are tanned with weathered hands.
The horseman rides through the town, but no one sees him pass.
The hooves of his great, black horse do not stir the fine layer of sand that coats the cobbled streets.
The horseman rides, and he watches.
He watches a child play just outside of her mother's reach.
He watches a young girl collect shells in her blouse at the seaside.
He watches a young woman and a young man select fish from the market for dinner.
He watches an old woman sit and feel the breeze against her wrinkled brow.
The horseman watches, and he takes note.
He takes note of the woman swatting at her child when she bites her mother.
He takes note of the young girl cussing when she steps on a thistle in her bare feet.
He takes notes of the young woman and the young man arguing over what kind of fish to buy.
He takes note, and he watches.
He takes note of the sky and the sea and the beauty of the little town and of all that happens within its borders.
He takes note of the confinement, and the release into blue, blue, blue.
He watches, and he rides on.