Tuesday, April 16, 2013

For Sorrely

It was just business between us,
            He and I,
He was wild and untrusting,
I thought training horses was to crawl on them,
            and ride.
I would rope and choke him,
Then catch one hind foot and stretch it
So he couldn't kick.
Hook my cinch ring with a wire, and
Away we'd go.
He didn't buck often, but when he did
It was hard and quick and flat
He'd bawl and spin, trying to unload
The man he never liked
             and would not trust.
I never petted Sorrely,
It was beneath us both.
The best we ever had,
For a friendship,
Was an uneasy

A couple Sorrely horse-trades and a dozen years later
Returning from some fall cow-work,
Four or five of us stopped for the
Mayhew field gate
Below the Connelly Corrals.
Buster, on a borrowed Sorrely, stepped off
To let us through.
As his right foot hit the ground,
He saw his left spur caught in his
Hobble buckle.
He tried to step right back,
But half-way on, Sorrely blew.
They scattered the rest of us like deer.
Trying to keep a bay filly from hitting the fence,
I watch it all over my shoulder.
Buster, hatless, both hands on the mecate,
Sliding, sitting half-up,
Kicking frantically at his trapped boot.
Sorrely stampeding, bent by the load
On the snaffle bit, bawling and kicking
At the old enemy.

At that moment,
I learned a lot about
Training horses.  

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