In My Huntsman’s Forgotten Left Pocket

Entry, Creative Corner
Blair Snively, Mississippi State University

It is so bitter even the sun

can’t melt the frost on the sod fields or flats

of ice in the depressions below the frozen

hills. I long for a taste of tawny port to burn

the chilled air from my lungs.

Reynard is here.

I know he is, because I can hear him

laughing. Laughing at those silly hounds

who work the line of four buck deer instead

of the scent woven by his musky red tail.

Blaze, taut under my oiled saddle, awaits my cue

as steam rises up off his chestnut hair frosted with foam.

Then I hear it- hounds crashing, branches snapping

as they bolt from Dog Leg Woods on the heels

of the deer. My heart catches in my

throat. They’re headed to the impossible density

of Big Woods. We have to stop them, pick up the reins, move on!

I know he will run faster than this. I pray his legs don’t find

any holes. The ice cracks under his studded

iron shoes. Bent low over his neck, fingers tangled in his mane, I urge him faster with my leg.

Over the ice flat, over Middleton’s Lane, up the bank and into the fallow corn field,

racing to head off the hounds, who look up

with tomfoolery. I lift my whip over my shoulder and my horse’s ears quiver

when he hears me yell, “Ware haunch!”

and bring down my whip with a rifle crack.

We thunder to head them off from the depths

 of the leafy trails, that could scatter them ‘till dark.

We chop their line, quickly lift their noses, and turn

them for home. It’s over.

 I look ahead- the hounds lope obediently,

Blaze pushes them on.

No one knows, but we spared them a thrashing

We’ll do it again and we won’t

tell the story. Seen, but not heard,

we are the whippers-in.

Comments

[Patty]

Excellent. I felt as if I were riding with you.