The horses open the barn door
and wander out into the corral.
Glory in the long, slanted morning light.
They amble to the post by the alder.
Dew damp cobwebs thread tree branches.
The struggle between spider and fly.
They frolic. No chickens underfoot.
Not for a while. Not until Paul
finishes milking two Ayrshire cows by hand.
The horses look for the blue button
by the gate, but find none.
The old rope loop as constant as ever.
Examining the stonewall,
they spot the last ice age markings and striations,
mosses and lichens far older than their kind.
Beneath the windmill, they arrive at the trough
full of cold well water and drink.
Runoff traverses terra cotta tiles to the cistern.
copyright © 2020 Kenneth P. Gurney