Baby, Walk Right

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