I am a rusty bucket.
Gritty skin the color of dead amber. My handle bent, hinges broken, one free of responsibility, one fused as the eternal load-bearer. What was once an essential component of my makeup, what allowed me to be carried gracefully from source to horse, now resembles a sort of Paleolithic antenna. Something ancient and unseemly. Better clipped and discarded than risking the potential tetanus from holding on too tightly.