The Haywagon

I sat, just turned thirteen, in honour of advancing age, the promise of maturity, stout reins in hands that had, with pride, acquired red calluses and broken nails. In charge of, maybe, tons of hay stuffed tightly in the bowels of the biggest wagon in the little town. The earthy cheeks of Percherons two pairs of silent force now glistening with perspiration were swaying, rhythmically, as if in trance. Ammonis sweetness hung like a cloud and covered all, for this exultant journey, soaked legumes and dry oats awaited anticipation settled now like eager ripples as two explosions signalled efforts to extreme. Uphill the stony road, a testy mountain and passing, pompously, the man of ebony, daydreaming with his heavy bible, full of dust, accompanied by 'God be with you', we reach the peak at last, the time is now to pull them back, these reins of my initiation, a test of common sense for man and beast, the liberty of losing all with too much speed and a catastrophe, fishtailing, it has killed well in the past but still so fresh in memory. 'Twas fifty years when I did take the reins again of a big wagon, stuffed with fragrant hay. The silly grin inside my head, it had returned, well-rounded cheeks did smell and look as in the past, and the intense and somber landscape of my face, in clouds of sweet ammonia and in trance. I am convinced that those four horses were the same.