Feeding Time
Open stalls spill emptiness
from the long barn wall, mouths agape
at the escape of horses. I can still hear
scooped grain rattle from bin to tongue-polished
feed tubs, rustle of forked hay, fluffed
straw knee-deep in dusk.
Once I nudged forelegs through a door
letting them carry me . Caught
by hoof beats, I now look out from where I vanished.
For this one moment I see through
horses' eyes and the blood of flying
without wings an exaultation in my veins.
© Patricia Crane 2005
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