The Man Who Loved Horses (new one of mine)

He was mostly gentle, mostly kind

calling to the horses as no other could,

The bay's ears twitching, rising, the cranky dun

lifting its head and the dapple gray coming to

greet him at a gallop, muzzle lined with

a thin green lather. He would ride out

with the first changing sky of the morning,

following clouds of dust into the grasslands,

relentless in his search for the grizzlies,

Gray Wolf, or a few stray cattle.

I lived there on the other side of the mountain,

brewing my potions of corn and cactus by day,

riding my sorrel mare to the crest of red rock

before evening, hoping to be spotted. His eyes

though were always fixed on the hills,

through the snows and the season of rushes, and

when the hawk returned slowly over the valley

scanning in singular precision.

In the beginning my voice was strong.

I would sing for him, and again the horses

would prick their ears, shake tangled manes,

nicker. He never heard me. He heard the horses

calling to him, and pounding hoofbeats, and a

long slow whistle that could be coming

from anywhere.