I Tell You Then Poem by Michael C. Peterson

I tell you then, your master is never so far from
you, you never have to raise your
voice. It is right that you understand what
you are saying, it is good this doing
something on your horse that isn't graceful.
A wind slides beneath it anyway.
But imagine a different horse, undifficult,
another boy who rides in a
high desert. The horse is quite black whereas
the boy is pale. A sight to behold
under the sun, this pair. They go galumphing
until there is no water and what spare
fuel is left is nowhere near enough. True story.
The sun dies, careening off the piñons-
there is something left but less than what the
day had promised you or I. Here's
where we make camp, darkness. And there is
suddenly nothing to be done but
play a harmonica or sing the song about being
so alone. No harmonica no song in
this boy. Best to keep riding it seems and so he
does and suddenly, the honest-to-
goodness-suddenly, the black horse disappears
and it looks, for once, like the boy is
actually alone, carried brightly like a chalice.