Across a mile of meadow,
I see what the horse sees, a whirling
funnel of wings in slow motion.
I know what we’ll find, if I ride there,
the horse not willing to back-talk.
Whatever it was, it’s over,
no more desire or fear forever—
a calf that wandered off
down crumbling shale, bone-snapped,
unable to bawl loud enough
until it starved. Or only a rabbit
that outlived the rattlers,
the safest death, simply to lie down
under blue skies and sleep, accepting
this as the way, not dreading anything.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 9 Number 8, on page 32
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