Drawing of a horse and rider by Edgar Degas, circa 1887. Courtesy of the Art Institute of Chicago.
My father’s voice
was Utah copper, honeysuckle gold.
Fine-tuned. Viola, not violin.
A radio voice. First pilot calm
air traffic controller
confident. Cargo in the hold.
His local intonations laced with faraway
translated dance steps
into river melt.
That brash, unabashed
Western swing –
flash, like floods.
When he spoke I could see horses
high-stepping
Tennessee walkers.
More often a quiver of arrows
quarrels invariably
hitting the mark.