The old girls know before we go, read
our minds, movement and the stars aligned
this time of year when they’ve given up their calves,
ready for home and breeze beneath the Buckeye shade
and cool dirt stirred by generations—something sure.
If you turned them loose they’d find their way,
but they’d rather graze than climb the hill
the young girls question, working edges, lingering
while feigning naiveté, looking off towards memory
and possibility other than a season with matrons
without patience. No one really tries the horses
who know their way around the rock pockets,
down trees and steepness, daring independence
with their eye and sidehill two-step. The bunch
lines out, everyone having fun headed home.
drycrikjournal 