late, late evening
I’ve cleaned the trough
of branches and leaves
up to my elbows
the soot of lived things
fresh water hisses
dances a spilled travel
horses prance over
curious as the way of cats
I turn around
let them drink of nonchalance
a colt snuzzles my neck
places a chin on my shoulder
reaching an arm back
scratching his cheekbone
watching the red moon winking rise
one lateral to the setting sun
each of us thinking
on this day that was
make mine a beaker of devil-may-care
ReplyDeletesaddle up, Hoss
DeleteI almost called my current work 'This' and this poem reminds me of this, if you will excuse the puns. An elegant work.
Delete