The Talking Stick, 2017
The day we mounted the horse–
—Princess—
a tall and haunchy female,
I clung to your waist,
my own powerful female,
as princess carried us
down the hill and into the pasture
to claim the cattle for milking.
She plunged into the shallow creek
and sank her fine-spun legs
deep in mud. Deep
in mud. My heart fluttered in fear
as the horse bucked and pulled.
Princess heaved herself, and us, free,
and we galloped up the hill
calling Come boss,
come boss. The reins lain lightly
against the agile neck
turned the horse left and right
through bristled pines
and the cattle lowed and turned,
slowly as flowers closing for the night,
lumbered toward the barn
where my uncle would lean his head
against each hot haunch in turn
and pull the milk, frothing white,
into pail after pail.