I say, Sam and I went riding,

By that I mean, Sam, the horse,

Carried me, the rider, but 

Sam and I, horse and rider,

Rode together for so many years,

Over so many rough miles,

That Sam and I went riding,

Seems about right. We rode.

We rode down the ridge,

The one leading to Rattlesnake Ridge.

We checked cattle along the way.

We stopped by that huge oak,

I wonder if it's still there, watching

Westward for weather, and 

Eastward for the long view, the ridges,

One after another, leading 

To the horizon, bluing all the while.

I talked to Sam, a running commentary, 

To keep away the blues, I suppose. 

He listened, his ears perking up, more or less,

Depending on the tone of my voice,

My oft-weary voice, my voice 

Low at best of times, barely audible,

But horses are attuned to sound,

Ears pivoting, it was no trick

To know when he was listening,

Equally easy to know when he was not.

To the south, thick timber. To the north,

More rolling hills, more ridges,

And truly we had miles to go, so we rode on.

But what I remember of that day, 

All that I can remember, is stopping 

Under the oak, listening, and looking,

And talking to Sam. I remember him.

There is so much more to this

Than the telling—there is the history,

The geography, the details of sky

And saddlery, of deer and quail,

Of creeks and rocky bluffs, of horseflies,

Of storms, of loneliness and fear,

Of pure fatigue and hopelessness.

More than I can tell, but there was 
One moment under a tree that stood out,

That hasn't faded, that has gained weight,

That has become iconic, and it has nothing 

Do with the vista or the weather or any of it—

It has to do with Sam, and the miles, and the years.

10/4/23