Wednesday, June 29, 2016

O black day

O black day.

They have killed my white horse, my pony boy.

Right now, which will be 'then' by the time you read this,
I can see the hole growing larger and larger, behind the cottonwood tree.

The backhoe pivots, leans down and curves itself full,
pivots again, and a rain of earth falls.

The sheriff came about a week ago, but my pony boy said nothing to the deputy;
who stood, near his truck, with his black boot on the white rail of the fence;
while the white horse stayed in the middle of his corner of the world.

I saw them this morning.  They entered, two of them, they hesitated; my pony boy stood
in the center of his field, as he has for 10, 15, 20 years; and then they walked up and put on a

There he goes now.  They have lain him on a flatbed trailer, and they are driving him,
in state, over the field, towards the stream, to the hole. 

O black day.