High in the saddle,
gently jolted
           back and forth,
my legs pressed
against the warm solid curve
of flexing muscled haunches,
one hand wrapped
in the soft loop of well-fingered reins,
the other holding
the leather-smooth horn,
up and down,
             forward I ride    
to the clop-clatter and heavy thud
of hooves
on pine needle padding and coarsely crushed rock,
past ghostly patches of faded ferns,
their crisp brown edges curled,  
past fields with crisp beige stalks
of leftover corn,
and through autumnal tunnels
of plants and trees,
burnt orange, evergreen,
crimson, gold, peach.
As I breathe in
the smoky sap-scented air,
                       leaves unhinge,
                             then spin
            while drifting towards earth,
  in the prescience
         of a rustling cool breeze.


© by Joan Kantor.
Used here with the author's permission.