First, I bring you a poem, which I'd like to dedicate to dancinghorse, casacorona, and coffeeem, for various reasons.
Of a long-shadowed evening, the horses stamp hollow,
expectant, roan sides steadfast and steaming.
Their horns that aren't gyre the air like stinging jellies
luminous and insubstantial.
Their attention lies heavy as haybales on shoulders.
Scraped boots wear a pendulum path
barn to shed
and shed to barn.
There's other work. Work to do without
glancing up to watch them watch back
a deniable mythology
horns impalpable as the breath swelling barrel bodies
blowing red nostrils wide in the pewter of age-blued heads.
In the scoop rattle oats, sweet and dusty.
Muck boots manure-freckled.
The barrow wants both hands.
But beyond white fences,
petal-sharp ears papercut on limpid dusk
the horses are listening.
27 July 2008
31 July 2008
1 August 2008
10 October 2008
In other news, last week at the archery range, I broke another arrow...