You and I and the Foal

We gather underneath tittering tin, feet on Earth, 

During day having labored, as all of Her 

beasts do. Radiant ray gives way to beating uproar–

hard, solid souls of ice hammering Her 

skin like a drum.

Horses heave sighs, gartered girths loose,

halter and horn and crownpiece and cantle, 

drinking rain and deflecting day’s wayward ice.

Breeching, boot, and breastplate having taken refuge

in the barn, martingales cast carefully away as our

own browbands and bolos dutifully do. 

Foal takes cover as we

do, and weaned colt still flails his 

fearless feet.

In the loud and habiting hail,

pattering on our 

racketing roof like hooves

of the Hackney, we 

three, and more, keep Her 

as close as our breath.