Territory Folks

After mother remarried, her new husband shot the horse that had returned with an empty saddle.

It hadn’t let anyone but me ride it since. You couldn’t slam a door or fire a gun, it would kick down the stalls.

We’d put it outside during thunderstorms. I’d hear a frantic drumroll of hooves circling the pasture,

& something heavy — the Sunday roast — scraping across a table. I mean, the way it sounds from underneath,

crouching among the chairs, hungry, keeping a wary eye on those tooled leather boots.