It’s late. All around us, the fires have slowly faded against the dry expanse and the arch of stars above. We have reduced our language to whispers and long, deliberate gestures. From each of the fires, a rider must depart tonight. They will cross through the darkness with eyes shut, trusting the horse to find a path to the verdant fields, where livestock loll under cottonwood trees and our doors are always open.
Thousands upon thousands have
departed on nights just like this—none to return.
A moment before the rider departs
from our fire, we gather closely, some of us clasping one another. Our muted
voices now sound like creek water. One by one, we embrace the rider and whisper
our farewells. The horse stamps at the earth alongside.
It’s up to the horse now.
—Mitchell Hegman
For Jo
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