Tuesday, April 16, 2013

In Like a Lion

She showed her true colors
In the Middle Field Gate.
Trying to get past me,
Pirouetting like a dancer
Sliding, leaping for an advantage
Finding none, she shuts her eyes
For the blind run to freedom.
My horse is fresh, he bashes her
Off the feed ground, into the deep snow,
             and knocks her down.
She never takes another willing step
Toward the corral.

Two hours later,
She still will not drive toward the barn,
And I am ashamed
To ask my lathered saddle horse
To drag her any farther.

I step down to retrieve my rope
From her sweaty, sullen neck.
For her nasty disposition, and
Seven dead calves in two
Miserable, freezing days,
I can't resist a "goodbye"
Kick in her ribs.
"Get up, you weak-hearted bitch."
She does.
A tussle erupts,
A mix of anger, exhaustion,
             and coils of rope.

That's what spooked my horse.

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