Saddle Wisdom

At first light the gate hangs crooked.
No sermon from the sky—
just wire, a post, a horse
waiting while I try.

I pull too hard. The staple bends.
The horse shifts in the dust.
I loosen what I thought was fixed
and learn the use of rust.

By noon the gate will swing again.
No crowd will know my name.
The horse drinks first. I wash my hands.
Tomorrow comes the same.