Saturday, January 01, 2011

At Lella’s Farm

In the pen
the young colt
pranced to a hand at the rail. He sniffed 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
Further up, a white cloth
clacked 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 wall.

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