Seven Miles South
In the falling light,
this gravel road out across the prairie
glows, reflective, like a river.
Foundations poke skyward from stands of sage—
mute stones left behind to say
We were here,
We were here.
Seven horses divide from shadow
In the electric blue dusk,
racing and showing off,
the way broken horses do not.
They are all dark brown, sleek,
rearing and snorting in play battles,
the field tawny and mown
beneath their elegant legs.
There is no fence on their side of the road;
they belong only to themselves.
I sit and watch the horses,
last light like a long, thin strip of apple peel,
tossed across this obdurate sea.
Up the road, someone lights candles
in the windows of their home,
and faintly comes the tin sound
of a radio playing inside the barn,
the mismatched voices
singing some lost song
I want to take away,
as though it were an armful of leaves
I could gather home.