FIRST AT THE GATE

Trying to meet me, eye-to-eye,
the old Red horse wants to go –
not knowing where, or how long

like the Bay horse years ago,
left behind the first time: gallop,
stop and turn on the fence

for an hour on his own, within
earshot of cows and calves
bawling at the branding with

old friends and neighbors
down the road – time takes us all
for a ride. Shed, grow winter

hair, play before the gusty storms,
they have no fear of the end,
nothing other than grand purpose

now. “But after awhile,” my Dad
once said, “you have to get used
to not being first in line.”