I like to ride most nights our here,
especially moonlit eves in fall.
That night I rode along the ridge
above a farm astride old Paul.

His ears perked up, he snorted twice
and shied sideways a step or more.
Right then I spied a tongue of fire.
It burst from 'neath the closed barn door.

I didn't think, I merely heeled
Old Paul into a frenzied lope.
I wheeled him 'round the dry deadfall;
we thundered down the oak-filled slope.

I reined him to a brutal halt
as smoke snaked through the burning walls.
Ten yards away I heard the screams
of horses trapped in gated stalls.

I shouldered open one side door
and pushed my way through thick white smoke.
I kicked through smold'ring bales of hay
and plunged ahead, trying not to choke.

Through slitted eyes I vaguely saw
a crazed colt's wild and frantic kicks.
As hooves attacked the blazing gate,
I ducked firebrands and raining sticks.

I heard a cry. "Please save my horse!"
Through falling ash a young girl crawled,
her tiny face soot-streaked and flushed.
"Help Colby! He can't die!" she bawled.

I flung myself against that fence
that yielded not to flailing hooves.
Then Colby plunged ahead at me,
stampeded by my frenzied moves.

The shrapnel flew as he crashed through
the splintered gate and bolted free.
The girl leaped for his trailing reins
and cried, "Whoa, Colby! Wait! It's me."

She snared her steed and tugged him out
the charred doorway we'd both come through.
I stumbled on to rescue mares,
but as I neared, their panic grew.

They'd heard the crackling hiss above,
the pop of rafters now ablaze.
I reached the stalls of maybe four,
pathetic beasts lost in a maze.

I opened gates and waved my arms
to get them out and on their way.
They bolted toward the open door.
I couldn't, wouldn't let them stray.

The rampant smoke sought exit, too,
and followed quickly in their wake.
My flesh was singed, I strove to breathe
but couldn't leave, too much at stake.

Then timbers holding up the roof
burst into flames and buckled fast.
The roasting beams began to sag,
and I was clobbered by a mast.

My legs were pinned, a bone had snapped.
Its jagged edge ripped through my jeans.
A voice sang out, the little girl's.
She must have heard blood-curdling screams.

"Here, Mister, grab the rope I've thrown.
My Colby's going to drag you out."
It simmered near some sizzling pyres,
but made of hemp t'was mighty stout.

I held her rope and soon I moved.
She'd trained that horse to take commands.
He slowly pulled me out of there,
but through some flames. I burned my hands.

When I was safe, I hugged that girl,
so happy we were both alive.
Her Colby and four mates escaped,
yet thirty more did not survive.

A few days hence we hugged again
as neighbors, friends and family
all gathered 'round a common grave
for those that died so tragically.

My hands and leg were plaster-wrapped.
I'd learned to hobble on a crutch.
We watched as flowers fell for souls
now gone so far beyond our touch.

As big tears dribbled down her cheeks,
the youngster that I barely knew
stared hard at me but softly asked,
"Do horses go to heaven, too?"