HORSE MILES

Out of darkness the horses approach the corral,
and Camargo is there smelling dust in the air
as the troop canters in with the clinking bell mare,
the ranch bitch underfoot - there's a kick and a snarl.

Then he finds his own sorrel among the massed bays,
and he leads it towards the black paradise tree
where he throws on the saddle and jabs with his knee
while he cinches until the horse angrily neighs.

He is given a maté and watches the dawn,
squatting under the blue of the paradise bloom.
When he swings in the saddle, he breathes its perfume,
and he's trotting past Hereford herds and longhorn.

After days on estancia horses he feels
the wild spring of his sorrel beneath him today;
up ahead stretch their shadows; what's left of his pay
rings in time with the creaking of saddle and heels.

From the Cerro's stone spines, down the grassy highway,
over Negro's deep stream and the Tacuarembó
where the water hogs swim and the cardinals glow,
he is trotting towards the decline of each day.

When the sun is a finger above a far hill,
he's invited to stop and dismount at a sink;
then a maté is passed and he hunkers to drink.
On his journey night falls to the crickets' sharp trill.

And the days form a chain that's as bright as the gold
on his belt. Wooded streams and grey outcrops resound
with the call of the teru that nests on the ground,
and the frowns of the sierras in time-lapse unfold.