Through the window, at a distance, I saw him today
As he meandered aimlessly in fields of weeds and clover —
Moving as one unsure of what would happen next,
Unsure if the danger of battle was truly over.
He bore the scars of a life lived- hard and full and well,
As only can be found in draft animals in service to the state;
Taught by unforgiving moments to think and plan for the worst
While carrying upon his sagging back the burdens of duty and chaos and fate.
When the thunder comes, the warhorse must run to the sound of the guns,
Remaining stalwart in the pell-mell charge of animals and men against fire;
Despite fear and fury, if the animal-instrument fails in battle just once
Then comes the flailing upon flanks and withers scarred by national ire.
Today the destrier, once a fine sleek stallion, now worn and old,
Gelded by the chaffing of time and burden, finding his days of service through;
And must create a new life and status in the field or the range or the stable,
Else the groom decide the warhorse worthless, short of factory and glue.
I catch my breath and realize —
No image through glass pane I see;
But reflections in a silvered mirror,
For that old warhorse is me.