The great horses whisper their indecencies in the great fields. They speak when they should not, especially when making excuses about their absences or misdeeds on the battlefield. They conspire, smoking up the winter air and foaming all over themselves. At night, they measure everything in the world according to their braided manes and horsepower. They dream of thieves and fire and they dance obscenely, turning only at right and left angles, as if they were princes of the nights and days. They philosophize on the great horse, a wooden machine made in their image who is pregnant with warriors that have or will give birth to history. While speaking ill of their riders, they pretend they alone are the four signs of the end. Otherwise, they would rot in fear from the thought of headlessness. Truly they are nightmares and rutting hounds whose teeth and hooves bring disease. Confessing their sins to haystacks, they openly fornicate under the stars and trample their young to death while the night watch sleeps. Although they demand the flesh of centaurs and kings for dinner, they curse the unicorn and the pegasus. They rejoice in rotting donkeys. They pretend that they are never gelded or hobbled, secretly screaming out in the night about blankets and shotguns. The great horses do not confess that their horsemeat is sold in all the markets everywhere for all to chew thoughtfully. They do not appreciate the elegance of a wooden carriage wheel.