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The Horseman
Dust on the trail-then a blot- Somebody coming! It's not Usual here in this spot Off the main highway, forgot By the world. But he's nearer. He rides At a trot on the level. He hides Where the shoulder of sandstone obscures The white cloud of his passing. He lures Our eyes from the harrow and churn. We taste of his coming. We yearn For his voice, for the word of the trail, For the pipefuls, the leisurely hail And farewell of the dwellers alone On the skirts of the high peaks of stone. One more turn and he'll be at the door. Quick, catch up the pail from the floor- His horse will be thirsty, and set The bench in the shadow, and get Some food on the stove. "Step right down- Take a seat. What's the good news from town?" But he answers us shortly-a drink For his horse from the spring-do we think He can make Canyon City by dark? We point out a blue ridge to mark. He is cold and apart from our words. He looks over the mountains-the birds Are not more incurious. He shakes The reins; the horse moves; silence breaks On the hills, the thin trail, the tilled field. He is gone. He will nevermore yield Cheerful secrets of where he has been, What has done, what has said, what has seen, His name and his station-his flight Has gathered them all. In the light We watch him ascending the height, More strange than the mountains and night.