Suzanne Rhodenbaugh

Would we were all randy pinto ponies, free on a plain and green, sniffing each other’s little asses and licking what we liked, rolling our fat dandy haunches in the new-mown hay, dragonflies buzzing our soft, soft manes, the keenest picture in a child’s favorite story, the one where there is, however, a villain, a good and a bad, some sense of honor at the end.