Huntfields
Judith Taylor Graham
This morning the clouds bunch east
against the mountains, all their rain
wrung out here. Too soggy for riding,
The ground thrusts up grass from hoofprints
Each a brand pounded
by half a ton running.
This morning the jumps sit still
A picket fense, a hedge, a log
Across a ditch. I imagine horse bulk
Lifting over, the breakable legs,
Flying lather, hoof clip
against a rail.
The morning after rain,
One small girl lays her cheek
Against damp wood and dreams
Of horses jumping
With wind in their tails, horses
That never ever miss.
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