The Red Horse
The darkest part of the morning,
A small cloud brushes by a cold dying moon.
Silent, but for the sound of snow
Squeaking as it compresses under my boots.
In the barn a dull yellow light glows over the hay manger,
hinting at warmth.
I enter the corral
Holding a bridle under my arm
By the steel of its bit.
The horses stamp
Breath frozen breathe clouds
And huddle in the furthest corner.
As I approach, The roan, the buckskin, the gray and Old Tom
Trot by in single file
Kicking backwards slightly as they pass me.
I spread my arms and corner the big brown horse
He settles, understanding that he is chosen
I offer a bridle whose cold metal has been warmed by my body
I wonder if he appreciates the thoughtfulness
I flip blanket and saddle onto his back
He swells himself as I pull the cinch
I curse him and jerk the cinch tighter.
Outside we settle down to riding the fence line
The brown horse and I becoming one
With the dark, the cold
And the purpose of the morning.
A calf bawls, the wind blows through us
I ride hunched, the brown with his head down
Little swirls of snow dance
Stinging our eyes shut occasionally
The brown horse and I ride with the last light of the morning
pale off the snow.
The purple darkness of the horizon beginning to flicker
As new light slowly dissolves the darkness
The ridges of the eastern hills focusing it into a singular light
That shines down the fence line
Becoming bright
Bouncing off wire and crusted snow.
The brown horse and I come to a place where the wire is broken
I dismount, cursing the cold
I remove the wire stretcher and fence pliers from my saddlebag
The brown stands where I leave him
Ground reined.
I put the stretchers on the broken wire
tie in a splice
"Hold barbed bastard wire"
it breaks, cuts my ungloved hand
Fingers hurt from the cold
Blood feels good, it is warm
I stretch the wire again
It holds. I release the wire.
I get back on the brown
Pull a piece of hard cake from my jacket
and tap the brown horse on the shoulder.
He reaches back for his treat.
The wind is softer
The sun fuller.
I think about the red horse
For twenty years you rode the red horse.
Then I rode him
Cause you knew he would not hurt me
I thought it was you who taught me
Maybe it was him
I did not know that then.
I think about the day I had a calf the red horse and my arm
All wrapped up in my rope
Hard and fast.
The red horse did not move.
You rode up, untangled us,
Both cursing and chuckling,
The buckskin would have hurt me
Maybe killed me
He would not have stood still
I did not know that then.
Eventually we put the red horse out to pasture,
A place we called The Long.
You and I would ride through
and like an old friend, The red horse would trot slowly up to greet us.
You would always say
And talk nice to him
The red horse would follow
As we rode through his place
On our way to other chores.
One day we rode through the Long
The red horse did not come to greet us.
On our way back from the day's work
we found him.
Standing alone.
Frail and pure,
Staring through hollow eyes.
The next morning you strapped the Winchester
to the roan I had saddled,
We didn’t talk.
We found the red horse standing in his final small place.
He was standing proud, I thought
And stronger.
His eyes were bright
The early morning sun flashed and shone off his coat
Like he was that young red stallion,
Pivoting right and left, squatted down
Front feet light.
Putting you on calves faster than any horse in the territory
Cutting off wayward cows so quick You could only hold on.
You dismount and hand me the reins to the roan.
I hold them
As you slip the saddle gun out.
I watch from the brown horse
Taking a tighter grip on the reins of both horses
In anticipation.
You lever the Winchester,
The red horse watches this.
He looks straight at you,
With a calm recognition.
The brown horse throws his head and dances a little
The roan pulls back.
I use reins and soothing words to settle them,
But my eyes never leave the red horse
Red goes down to his knees,
almost as if you had trained him
To do just that.
I had never known sadness before.
The brown horse and I come to another place
Where the wire is broken
And the snow has drifted packed.
Tracks show that cows have crossed over
Into White’s place.
We fix the wire.
Tomorrow I’ll load the brown horse into the back of the pick-up
And the brown and I will push the wayward cows back to our place.
The brown horse and I return,
finished with our work for the day.
I think of that young red colt,
Soon I’ll bring him in.
Maybe he will be another
Red Horse.
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