Chance

His strawberry roan grazed
In grassy clumps
Along the river bank.
The aging man called
Chance
Sat against a willow.

The sad branches
Draped
Both horse and man
In its gentle embrace.
The mist rising
Filled the nostrils
Of human
Horse
And toads
With a forlorn
Wistful aroma.

Many years had passed.
All was different now
All that mattered
Irretrievable
And Chance's body was
Weary
His mind
Heavy
His road
Played out.

Chance
Ate the last of his bread
Drank the last of his coffee
Smoke the last of his tobacco
And studied the last of his thoughts.

The saddle was lifted
From the roan
The bridle and blanket
Tossed on the damp earth.
Chance reflected that he, too
Was just another piece
Of the mix
Scattered along the riverbank.

Chance
Let the small fire
Burn to embers
While the mist thickened
Into a white shroud.

Chance
Retrieved the Walker
From the worn leather holster
Checking the rounds
In the wheel.
All is as should be.
The roan made contented noises
As it moved downriver
Among the sweet grass.

Somewhere
High above
Stars complained to the night sky.
Leaning hard against the willow
Chance
Made effective use
Of the powder
Packed in one brass casing.

And the roan moved along the bank
In the closing gloom.