I had a ring once, made from a
horseshoe nail. Made for me by an Irish
blacksmith, a wiry little man with a musical brogue, sinewy forearms, and a
leather apron. He’d cradle a hoof on his knees and trim away the horny
overgrowth with giant nippers, tossing aside the parings for the dogs to gnaw.
Then he’d choose a cold shoe and slap it on, sizing it up with an expert eye.
The acrid smell of coal smoke . . .
I can hear the whoosh of the bellows, see the flames blaze up as he waits for
the iron shoe to glow red-hot. He holds it edgewise on the anvil with
long-handled tongs and beats it into the perfect shape for this particular
hoof, bouncing his hammer in a ringing diminuendo after each blow: BANG BUTabutabuta,
BANG BUTabuta . . . He plunges the hot shoe into a bucket of water and fits it,
still sizzling, onto the hoof, nailing it in place with just a couple of blows
for each of the nails he holds handy between his lips. He clinches the nail points
and shifts his shoulder to the mare’s flank.
I study my battered store-bought sneakers and inhale the heaven scent of
hay.
tapping
the last syllables
into place . . .
the rhythm of hoofbeats,
the lift of white wings
