Remember that moment,
you would
turn.
Your head
first. The rein
suggested the east,
away
from the cauldron.
The sun was melting
on the hot knife,
the serrations
of the western range.
From there,
our long shadows
(two animals/one beast)
found the direction,
our true north. The gold
of the compass
sharpened on the hard
flint and obsidian, only
to be softened
on the shiver
of your sorrel coat.
You know--
with the tap
and the click
and the bit's grinning tug--
this is the moment
when magnet and needle align
and you are pulled
open. Four hooves shod
(four winds, four directions)
finding the dust
and the clay
going, going
home.
