Warhorse

Sharp orange glint stings old, weary eyes, so many long and distant campaigns recalled in the gloaming.

Atop a grassy ridge stands a solitary stallion, harness and saddle polished, awaiting the bugle's final sounding.

Fluttering, the Colors flow and snap in autumn's late breeze, a proud reminder of both cost and purpose.

Below them both rides out a cavalry of shiny young colts, galloping away smartly all dress right dress.

Briefly, a yearning to join their charge, till sadly it's remembered ... the summer of sweet glory has passed forever.

Then at long last, Taps, the bugler sounds his solemn yet soothing call, haunting the groomed, empty parade field.

Thoughts return to honor and duty, salutes and sacrifice, fallen comrades and those who simply faded away.

Finally the last note echoes poignant, a teary pause before he crests the hill in search of soft fields of clover.