I tell you then, your master is never so far from 
      you, you never have to raise your 
voice. It is right that you understand what  
      you are saying, it is good this doing  
something on your horse that isn’t graceful.  
      A wind slides beneath it anyway.  
But imagine a different horse, undifficult,  
      another boy who rides in a  
high desert. The horse is quite black whereas  
      the boy is pale. A sight to behold  
under the sun, this pair. They go galumphing  
      until there is no water and what spare  
fuel is left is nowhere near enough. True story.  
      The sun dies, careening off the piñons–  
there is something left but less than what the  
      day had promised you or I. Here’s  
where we make camp, darkness. And there is  
      suddenly nothing to be done but  
play a harmonica or sing the song about being  
      so alone. No harmonica no song in  
this boy. Best to keep riding it seems and so he  
      does and suddenly, the honest-to- 
goodness-suddenly, the black horse disappears  
      and it looks, for once, like the boy is  
actually alone, carried brightly like a chalice.