My Dad Teaches Me to Saddle a Horse, a Father's Day Poem

I hear the scratch of the curry comb against the horse’s hide. When my father combs the mane and tail, I hear a different sound. After brushing the horse’s back, he reaches beneath the belly,

gently says, “Easy now.” He cautions me not to brush the tender wedge of the withers. ​I learn by watching him. He throws on a saddle blanket, releasing a whiff of horse sweat, smoothes the folds, places a fancier blanket on top. I watch as he heaves the saddle onto the horse, the right stirrup hooked over the saddle horn. When he lets loose of the stirrup and cinch, the horse does a little jump. Dad wraps the latigo strap around the cinch ring, gives it a firm tug.

 Dad hands me the halter rope. I lead the horse out of the barn into the sunshine. He takes the bridle and, with his left hand, guides the bit into the horse's’ mouth, places the earpiece over the horse’s ear. I hear the bit rattle as the horse rolls its tongue over the cricket. Dad knots the reins, smiles, and hands them to me. I remember sliding onto the saddle from the top rail of the corral fence.

I know my father watched me with love as I rode into a sky blue Nevada morning.