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Rated: E · Poetry · Western · #1951100
Thirteen horses in my yard.
They must have moseyed in from the front, which means
clomping down Saddlebrook Avenue past Queens’
Street, only to take up residence in the back.

And so there they are, thirteen horses, a pack
of different colors too.  I recognize
two stallions, three Arabians (by their size),
and at least one old paint, maybe more.  The rest
of them are sorrel brown--I feel like I’m out west!
Thirteen horses in the back; my new neighbors.

I could speculate till dawn, but such labors
only drain, and what would be the point of it?
Thirteen is odd and ominous, yet they saw fit
to come as one, a rider-less posse for
reasons beyond my ken.  I can toss some more
around and tax my bunkhouse brain, but neigh.
I would rather dally where the equine stay!
Come along with me as horses shake their mane.

I am not remiss--I take some sugar cane
in cubes, of course, and let them take it from my hand.
Lips roll like waves, eyes indicate they understand
the camaraderie I feel.  This is O.K
Corral!  Yet it is not Tombstone of yesterday.
Thirteen horses make the yard very small.

As they mill about and eat green grass, I call
them, not individually, but as a group:
“Disciples,” I say, and as I stand upon the stoop
and watch, thirteen horses in the yard form
a semi-circle, as if to them the norm
is wagon wheel conformity.  Bonanza, each
and every day--I see what heights nature can reach.

“Ah, Disciples,” I say with tongue in cheek,
as I stand with equine brawn feeling meek,
ever so humble, acknowledging their place
of stewardship through time for the human race.

34 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
September 5, 2013

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