Grazing Epoch

While the dew still blankets the tops of the tall clover,
and early sun needles thread knots in the barn siding,
distant treetops sway
and the rooster still crows,
and the rough hewn cedar gate,
a scratchy thick gate,
cranked on its rusty hinge iron,
drawn open, digs an arc
in the caked dust of the barn floor.

As the light unblankets the tops of the tall clover,
and tiny kite-wings beat in a slight morning breeze,
distant treetops gleam
and the barn builds shadows,
and her torpid summer gait,
a scratchy wet gait,
cranking and stretching her coat,
breaks the clods, digs hoof marks
in the caked dirt of the field path.

When the sun waxes, melting and dripping saffron yellow,
and the tops of the tall clover blossom and flutter,
distant treetops blur
and the flies flock her coat,
and she shakes them from her mane,
a scratchy plain mane,
cranking and stretching her neck,
draws them out, draws them in,
while the day ages still on to dark.