Just Horse

He was a farm horse, broad and strong and slow.
He loved the sour grape leaves on the hill,
And dragging the cultivator he would go
With many stops between the fresh green vines,
Nibbling right and left up the long slope.
"Come! Giddap there!" we'd say without much hope
Or any action but his swishing tail.
He had no thought of grapes, nor of their wines;
He didn't mind the cultivator's pull;
Nor did he mind the reins slapped on his rump.
The work was hardly noticed in the full
Tide of his easy strength.
And when the cultivator caught and stopped
Against the deep root of an ancient stump,
Old Charlie stopped and ate the cool grape leaves,
Knowing that such things were to be expected:
The long drag up the hill; the biting flies;
The stumps of earth, and deep warm summer skies.
He was a farm horse, and he knew these things
Were part of life-like hooves and feathered wings.

STAN BLAKESLEE.