Riding Lesson

by Richard Taylor

“Gallop or get off the horse,”
said the First Sergeant who wasn’t,
though there was ground to take with a horse,
and his voice wore chevrons and rockers, three
and three, a loud diamond in the middle that declared
we were all present and accounted for, standing there
in a straw of sunlight kindling the tumult
of his white hair.

I was to take up the run the horse had
in his hooves, hear them all at once
and over and over say time is forever
short, and your single moment is
now; no more waiting afraid of his withers
quivering at thunder and squall out of nowhere
with a name.

His shoulders rolled exultant
over the green knolls, underway
and more, for his feet plucked fine at the turf,
and dactyls and oracles rose from his shoes,
tuning my knees, asking for ears,
quizzing my tongue.

“Short of full-tilt,” said the First Sergeant,
“any green field will ever stay quiet.  So
give him his head and the meadow will strum
at ease with a boy on a bay at a run.
More you don’t need, nor even me
to give orders.”