Winter Horse
The air this autumn afternoon
is clear, and the neighborhood so quiet
that the few sounds feel
like hands open to light
and the far-away sighs of a jet,
a dog, a horse grazing
beneath the shuffling trees
on this bright day.
A fly nuzzles the window
as if it's still summer. Soon
the trees, the yard, the books along the wall
will fall into early darkness,
into shadows of themselves,
into symbol. And I'll notice
everything again.
A horse looks across the fence,
a horse looks at the mountains.
© 2010 Nellie Hill. All rights reserved
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