Across a mile of meadow,
I see what the horse sees, a whirling
funnel of wings in slow motion.

I know what we’ll find, if I ride there,
the horse not willing to back-talk.
Whatever it was, it’s over,

no more desire or fear forever—
a calf that wandered off
down crumbling shale, bone-snapped,

unable to bawl loud enough
until it starved. Or only a rabbit
that outlived the rattlers,

the safest death, simply to lie down
under blue skies and sleep, accepting
this as the way, not dreading anything.

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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 9 Number 8, on page 32
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