Author: Margarita Engle

In the time of flying horses
I knew how to dream
like a child, or an ancient
oracle, foretelling
the hunger of hoofs
as they descend
toward rocky, tumbled earth,
the green growth
so edible and coveted

this solid taste
of walking life
just as enchanted

as the lightness
of wings
in restless air.

In field guides to the giant
creatures of Cuba

the mother-of-water
is a boa constrictor so huge
that muleteers often
mistake it for a palm tree

and in the morning
after leaning against the serpent
in sleep

they awaken to discover
that their mules have been eaten

and the snake has slipped away
into the sea, its giant home, big enough
for dreaming.