Today, in that old junk-pile down the hill, One of the farm's peculiar treasuries -- We found a rusted stay, a splintered thill, A knee of oak, and surge of memories... Robbed of their gloss by wash of wind and sun -- No hint of cushioned comfort, scroll display -- But sound as when their runnered flight was done Decades ago... or was it yesterday? I see spent mustangs -- weary miles to go -- The heads up-flung in sudden, age-old fright, As a wild chorus shrills across the snow -- A soothing word, and onward through the night. Fur-coated form -- a cabin door flung wide -- A shape that leers across the ragged spread -- Two kind, cruel hands, and One to watch beside -- Two lives his offering, when dawn burns red! "Daddy, what is this thing beat like a bow?" "Just an old piece of Grandpa's cutter, son -- He used to drive one 'round here, long ago -- How could you guess -- you never rode in one!" |