In the Pasture

It would be impossible to draw these three workhorses
without a pencil of light
as they stand broadside to the afternoon sun
outlined with narrow lines of fire around their vast
chestnut forms, almost black against the dazzle.
The young mare swings her long tail from hip to hip,
and her Titian-blond mane hangs over her shoulder
like the ringletted chevelure of a Victorian belle,
innocent and alluring.

Beyond her
the two big geldings, brothers and team mates,
scratch each other’s wide red backs
with careful incisors.

Swallows fly
over the grass, cloud shadows cross the lake
and darken the blue of the hills on the opposite shore
but in the pasture the sun is shining.
the afternoon wind has driven off the flies,
and the three big horses are all at their ease;
a small, happy society
of souls who are gentle and do no harm.
who live in God’s pocket, who spend the long summer days
moving from sunshine to shade and back to the sun,
who want nothing but to be where they are.