Samson was going all out, catching a stride that almost felt like floating. Though he was more known for his cutting skills, and bravery among bulls, he was showing me in a pinch he could also be a race horse. But even with his gallant effort, he was still a good five lengths back from the steed carrying my rose.
Down we galloped into valley, playing lover’s games as rode down tree-lined country lanes. She would look back, her long black hair flowing like pozos lit by an angel’s halo from the large Mexican harvest moon. We raced towards the music that was waffing over the next ridge.
Samson did his best to catch her filly, since he felt the same about that horse as I did it’s rider, but it was all for not. You can never truly ever catch a rancher’s daughter from the El Bajio.