HORSES IN A FIELD
It's December and I stop the car
a mile or so before the house.
A field of horses nuzzle grass.
They lift their heads and breath freezes
at the tip of each nostril.
Those chilled white clouds
are shaped like other horses,
ancestral horses, floating there.
I watch the sun melt these ghosts
from the outside in,
until nothing's left
but the next breath
and the next and the next.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in That, Dalhousie Review and Qwerty with work upcoming in Blueline, Chronogram and Clade Song.
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