Horse Show

Winter shows at Biscuit Farm.

At four, the road is lit not by the dawn,

But drive through windows, awake before the sun,

Before even the horses.

At six, we make them run the ring, to keep,

She says, the jitters out.

We charge them, feign with whips

To make them go.

Dappled in the noonlight between classes,

We bury bitten, muddy nails

In their winter hides and tuck close

To their sides to block the wind.

The oldest one will let us

Keep a palm cupped to his nose

So each heaving breath curls blood back

To our fingers. No softer thing

To work-worn skin

In all the world than this.

Still, the stalls need sweeping,

More to rake and pick and tack,

But cold creeps slow

In full November sun.

We borrow warmth and stink of hay

And soon it’s over.