That the horse died in her tracks beneath the man
she’d carried all those years, meant he’d have to walk
the rest of the way. Together they had covered a lot 
of ground. The man thought he was nearer to where
he’d end up than to where he’d lit out from. When the horse was alive
he would sometimes talk to her and she would listen and think 
about his voice. Now as he walks alone he talks to himself,
not always in agreement as to what he is saying.
There are many more miles to walk yet and some steep
inclines ahead, some marshes where the muck will suck
at his boots and some sand where he’ll sometimes feel
his is losing ground. But by and by, he will get to where
he is headed for—a place where the last of his words
will catch up with the last of his thoughts about the horse
who died in her tracks and didn’t care to know
where they were going.