An old horse in Appalachian rain
I stand at tether since the storm began,
remembering the first meadow where a man
taught me the bridle and the mouth-bit's pain.
Later he tutored me to thrill to the rein,
love quirt and spur, love even the span
of rib-pinching saddle-straps. And how we ran,
my hooves chipping flint-stars, all fiery my mane!

In rivulets of names rain monuments
the earth. My back has become a map:
Manassas, Chickamauga and Bull Run
blooded me, Appomatox cinched the strap.
Now Alexander, Caesar and Napoleon
reel on an old horse tethered to a fence.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 22 Number 9, on page 30
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