by Margaret Reges
The ultrasmooth conical surfaces of cloud, the ultrasmooth spinning cloud, the cloud spun into ultrasmooth and still cone shapes, the water tank lifted from its trusses.
To feel the face pressed against the warm belly of the horse, the ribs, the flank, the spattered droplets of rain in its hair, the warm hollow sound of its breath.
Hail stones heavy in the grass, slick, wet, eyelike, reflecting the sleek bank of cloudlight, the blue pulse of sparks from a busted transformer, the power line skipping on the surface of the road, whipped by the wind.
Red rim of the nostril, the ear twitching as if there were flies, breath the hot empty bellows, and then that larger sound,
amber-veined light, thistle down, the dull blank-grained bodies of horses moving together in the black, guttural collapse.
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