The morning highway crisps
Through the late fall fields,
Rich red flickering boldly
At the edge of the rimy woods.
Dappled cows, flanks close
And steamy, breathily pull hay
From the leaning ricks stacked
High in a frosted field.
Bundled on a rocky hillside
Fat sheep tuck their feet
Under grey woollen vests
And stare at each other.
As the wan sun glides chill
Over the quarry pool the deep
Black water shrugs the thinning
Fog off its splintered shoulders.
Legion along the brittle ditches
Twisted milkweed stalks spit
Their silken froth from cracked
Behind arthritic fences huge horses
Patiently crop their hoary pasture and
A gangly colt sprints madly across the
Grizzled meadow, brilliantly excited.
Suddenly, a pick-up whizzes by my car,
The driver peering at me quizzically.
Another horn honks impatiently. I realize
I have been creeping along, mesmerized.
Cynthia Buell Thomas