Tuesday, August 12, 2014

5684. HORSES

HORSES
All these horses mean nothing now : the farmyard fence
seems bent around the meadow. The dark, morning light,
not yet quite ready, only touches the treetops faintly, so
that I merely think I see. High above, some intense
white of a piercing moon, as if a leftover segment
of the night before, lingers in the morning sky.
Suspended  -  seemingly  -  high yet heavy
over a brooding barnyard curve, throwing
slender shadows to mysterious 
driveway trees near where 
the horses stand.

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