We turn the corner and there’s Dave
unwrapping Magic Harry from his
rug. It flaps off, waving
flag-like in the air.
We roll down the stall-row,
stop, unlock the boot, and then
here comes Dave leading Magic
Harry between green duco
and rickety fence and, yes,
they get slenderly by.
The sun pours down in breeze-
tempered buckets, not too
hot, but humid, and Harry gets
tied to the rotting red car
and here comes Flossie
happily, steadily, ready for
grooming, tacking, riding.
Comb flies. Brush sweeps dust
and pick cleans already-open
frogs. Saddle pad slaps,
cinch tightens, leg goes up and
then down and we’re together
leather-to-leather again.
We enter the track and there’s
Dave leading Magic Harry
by the door handle and we
trot and pace and gallop to
keep up. The sun continues to
pour, unheeded, until I’m through
and when I finally notice
I rub the humidity off brow
and back with a towel.
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