Old Horse

Standing on three feet, one back foot
propped and flexed, hooked ears tipped forward,
listening to crows speak ancient lexicon--
convex black eyes searching side to side,
like a flashlight--hooked talons, attached to
four rubbery prongs, claw for seed and
funeral offerings to lay at his feet.

Bluebirds plunder privet hedge where he scratches,
yellow-lined beaks gorged with his red horsehair
to pad nest. Wild cardinal flowers wail, marching
down mossy creek banks, flinging blood red capes
that swirl and run aground on small rocky sandbars,
cluttered with rotting branches.

March wind rushes through the barn breezeway,
blasting a thicket of skinny silver-barked trees,
leaving flaming green pine tops stunned and
shimmering. Cold air uncinches every ligament and
muscle--he arches and stretches his back--joints pop,
and warm morning sun creeps into every crevice
and sinew. He shivers, drawing his body in tighter,
long roman nose and chin tucked against downy chest
thick with red hair. Deep pink nostrils flare and undulate,
like giant redfish tails in gulf waters.

Free from the horror of the human bit that
arcs and cracks the roof of the earth’s mouth--
black-violet bruised howl catching in our closed,
burning throats--he lies down in clover instead.
Unafraid of the upwelling--nature’s great scoop--
flies and beetles alchemize his decaying body,
nourishing yellow jagged-edged coreopsis.
Forager bees feed and carry him along with the nectar
in their bellies and the pollen on their hairy legs.

Energy caught up by the short blue-light tongue of atmosphere,
flung into black space, orbiting tiny neon orange stars,
waiting for andromeda and milky way to collide.