Briefly the moving window holds
a field of blowing grass
with woolen clumps of gray sheep grazing,
backs to the wind.
And there a single horse, a chestnut horse,
raises its burnished head, ears pricked,
eyes and nostrils sampling the world,
while the wind
whips the mane against its silken neck.
We pass.
But the mind tugs back
to beauty blazing in the grass.
Wordless among sheep in a windy field--
how can it know what it is? Jane Robinson
6/27/94
April 16, 1993
The Chestnut Horse
Briefly the moving window holds
a field of blowing grass
with clumps of gray sheep grazing,
backs to the wind.
And there a single horse, a chestnut horse,
raises its burnished head, ears pricked, eyes and nostrils sampling the world,
while the wind
whips the mane against a silken neck.
We pass.
