Slow Smoke/Dynamite

by Lew Sarett

DYNAMITE

Outlaw they brand you, killer, bucking fool,Because you spurn the hackamore and cinch;The round-up wranglers wait with eager heartThe moment of your fall: your steel-curbed mouthRunning a rill of blood, your back worn rawBy saddle sticking like a cocklebur,Your wild heart, broken by the quirt, subdued.

O bronco, whose will is set against the willOf the multitude, as taut as any bowstring,Know that another outcast will exultIf the free-born one shall pitch the sovereign manyOver the rim of sky and into darkness. . . .

Beware!—the burlap that they strive to flingAbout your head to blind you! the velvet handsThey clamp upon your ears, your quivering mouth! Or you will run the range to-morrow servile,Shattered of soul as any mongrel cur.

Beware! They come! Let fly your molten heels!Double and snort and twist! Rain down your hoofsOf crackling thunderbolts upon the ground!For every sweep of spur from neck to flank,Hurtle your rider skyward, rake his headUpon the pointed stars, and heave him sprawlingOver the moon and down to earth again.

Oh, beautiful!—the wild heart pounding, free!The flames of hell triumphant in your eyes!As lovely your electric flesh careering,As galloping cloud and lightning-flash, your kin,The wild unfettered horses of the sky.

Well done! Well done! O bronco, run! Run!Streaming the velvet banners of your mane,Run free again; back to the comradeshipOf cantering rain and nickering waterfalls,To your mountain solitude where thin blue windsWhinny among the pines and crop the grasses.And wait for me, O bronco, wait for me there.