Afternoon’s the best time to see them,
when the morning feeding is over
and most of the day’s work is finished, only
the long hours before night left; perfect for slow
grazing at the pasture, tails mindlessly swatting flies,
ears flickering, long snouts arched low to the mud,
bridles loosened a little.
In this light, the light the old Dutch masters loved,
their bodies brush to chestnut and roan
as they drink, meander to the fence, whinny or scuff their hooves.
As I watch them, I wonder how it would be
to think not with the mind, but with the body, need
fastened to the day like horizon.
To know only the tug of instinct, hunger’s shape, fullness.
Warmth on one’s back to divine the sun, the seasons.
Cool mud, cool shade, cool water. Hay’s comfort, then
dark, which means barn and narrowness, protection.
Not to know death the way we do, or the sound
of the farmer’s wife coming at night
to find the sheep’s body mangled and dented, death
already in her throat.
Only to know, after the hay’s in the trough
and the light folds back behind the cornfields,
the whispers and nudges that guide you to
the pasture, the feel
of wet night in the grass.
