12/CHRONICLESnI. Alexander’s CavalrynHorses at Chaeroneantrampled the Theban Band.nLater at Gaugamelanwhere Persia made its stand,nhorses embarrassed Dariusnwith flanking incursions,nharassing his chariotsnand myriads of Persians.nII. Two MetaphorsnSomeone described the horsenas “poetry in motion.”nAnother beside the oceannsaw “horses of the sea.”nThe latter phrase has force,nbut I dispute the notionnthat horses are poetry;nit’s not fair to the horse.nIII. iVlontana KoannTwo fillies on the plainswasnit their flowing manesnor was it the wind that flew?nThe twisted sage maintainsnit was the mind that blew.nIV. The CuttingnCulled from a milling herdna calf bawls at the sky,nand heifers question whynponies were ever spurred.nCowboy, colt and calfnall wirii their tails awry—nas riiough my dogs and Inran roosters through the chaffnand made the feathers fly.nV. Look Homeward, RanchernRiding to Beartooth Passnhe looks back at the plains,nranges of grazed-out grassnthirsting for mountain rains —na bankrupt watershednwhere ledgers testifynthat black ink runs rednafter flie stock ponds dry.nHorses for My Fathernby Timothy MurphynVI. Put to PasturenThe old stud is grazing,nnickering and lazingnnear the knacker’s yard.nHe’s shucked off all tracesnof dirt-track racesnscored on a loser’s card.nWliat bookie has tiie artnto handicap a heartnwhen it has run so hard?nVII. My Father Young and OldnAncient writers say three score years and tennare all the time the gods allotted men.nDon’t tell that to my father in his eightiesnwhom Cerberus has yet to greet in Hades.nSpending his boyhood on a horse-drawn ploughngained him flie furrows on his worried brow,nthe music in his fading memories;n”chaintugs ringing on the steel singletrees.”nVIII. TransfigurahonnThe old stallion died.nOur roan no longer roamsnthis treeless countr}’side.nIn a canyon car’ed by streamsnbeyond the Great Divide—na greenway flanked by cliffs—nan eagle blinds its prey,nstrips flesh from the ribsnand holds a wolf at bay.nIX. Lines from flie AntigonennnThe wonders of this world are numberlessnbut none of fliem more wonderfifl than mannwho broke the spirit of the mountain bull,nyoking its lathered shoulders to his plough.nHe saddled the wild stallion, windy-maned,nand rode the ocean with his plunging prow.nAll creatures of the sea and earth he named,ntaming them with the nets cast by his mind,nand yet—against the forces of one wind,nthe last tempest of death, he cannot stand.n