Saddle


Horn and pommel worn by familiar hands,
Ten thousand rides,
Emits soft glows of unfinished use
Ready for light fingers, weathered palms.

No silver, no leather tool-work
Adorns plain skirts, only strings
Hanging down, fringe-like,
Older than sunsets and dusty summers.

Seat curves in the back, wraps upward,
Conforms to lean haunch, hugs downward,
Draping 15 hands of patient roan,
Whose ears swivel back, listen to the creak,
To feet angling into stirrups,
Wait for the merest flap of reigns
Or kick of heels, her only signal to

Go
Go
Go
Go
Go
Go

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