Faster

​Faster, the rider willed,
the rushing air not yet in
his nostrils.

Faster, he spoke aloud,
the mail won't deliver
by itself.

Faster, the cheat grass blew,
leaning, pointed to the east,
against them.

Faster still, into the dusk,
the coming change of horses,
soon enough.

Faster, nearly finished,
can't break off to rest,
until then.

Stop! He has arrived,
the next rider grabs the bag
and is off...

Published in "A Splendid Alternative" and "Eloquence"
By Jack Huber- All rights reserved.

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