Friday, August 22, 2008

At Lella’s Farm

In the pen
the young colt
pranced to a hand
at the rail. He snuffed its palm
where the sugar cubes
had been. They stood
there, not waiting. The damaged
wind drew back to its drip
feed in the hills. One of them whistled
for the hand’s
owner to come back
to the pickup. The colt snorted
and arched into a coiled
spring. The pickup’s engine
shivered a reflective calamity.
Further up, a white cloth
was clacking like a freight train.
They were off, all of them. A point
at the source of the dust column.
We heard the colt
alone in its skin, a wet
envelope, a waving sheer wall.

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