Trail Horses Grazing at Dusk
Their backs hammock sunset,
and with imperial glances they look at
the uneaten grass, their nostrils
pinching the white air.
Bales are the piratical chests they covet.
Blinders gone, the trails hoofed down,
they shake their pulled-at manes
They need no fences, even saddle-stripped.
Their haunches unflex in the weight of just themselves,
the marks from dulled spurs
still stinging a little.
But they know the time shadows lengthen,
and are judicial. They imagine
the stirrups corseting their ribs,
the bits between teeth,
then they let their shadows grow
with their silence.
As they eat,
carrying a belly or a backfull,
they nuzzle the grass,
and need no fences.
Copyright 1981 William Dubie
From Closing The Movie House
Reproduced by permission of author