Again, September wind rushes in,
carrying the sound
of red-tailed hawks,
and I'm surrounded
by the screech of it.
Look, the wings always
come back. Inside, they know.
No one ever reminds them
that it's their season.
Here, the fields are wild,
too-tall, and narrowly fenced-in;
some blades nearly touch
my thigh. Like prairie grass,
loose, calm waves sway yellow,
here and there singed
from another changed summer,
and outside every day,
but for the few fly nets,
these horses are naked.
First, I am muscle and manic
with the new, a baby
trying to prove myself.
We ache, made of bones
and skin, like them.
You and I live
for the strange, big eye,
the flight, the fresh-cut hay,
the hidden music
within animal silence,
and the clapping laughter
of the crowd.
Sometimes I get this life;
it makes sense to clean, feed,
sweat through the jeans,
and keep the blood
close to the heart.
It makes sense
to walk right
when leading the barefoot Paint
to the pasture,
making sure his hooves
strike the grass path,
rather than the gravel one,
because I see him squint,
and I know the journey must sting
without shoes.
C.A. MacConnell
