The Sharing

I have not ridden a horse much, two, maybe three times, a broken gray mare my cousin called Ghost, then only in the fall through the flat pastures of Ohio, that's not much. But I watched two Chinese tanks roll out of the jungle side by side, their turret guns feeling before them, their tracks slapping the bamboo like hooves. I can't name the gaits of a horse except the canter and that rocks you to the withers, but I saw those arms, those guns and did not know for a moment what they were, but knew they were not horses as they pulled themselves deep into the jungle until there was only the dull rattle of their tracks and a boy on a gray horse flying through the opening fields.

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