Horses grazing on a hillside,

parallel-pointing weathervanes,

from this distance motionless

(try to see the hour hand move).

Rusted sculptures, light-absorbing

chestnut, all thews and strength

born in fire and sparks, roaring heat,

now oxidizing (the weather’s sluggish flame).

Their necks gracefully arced downward,

their mouths upon the fibrous meal.

Their straight legs, their

swarthy flanks against the turf.

They are statuesque and emblematic

of times past, of days of

sweat and muscle, brisk aromas,

dust, leather,

shouts.

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