by Hiatt O'Connor

Where horses once were, wildflowers bloom
into a tangle of white clover, dandelion, oxeye-daisy and violet
dead nettle. Starlings murmur shape

into the air and this is the only sound. She died
six years ago, and like that coalescence
of birds my memories yawn into form

just to fall away into a formless quiet - a fall
from horseback to a broken collarbone;
watching hawks in high ellipses
from the porch; a sleep deepened
with wine.

I am barefoot in the field, alone
with myself and the empty wind
until a fox
sparks from the wildflowers in a shout
of color, like a bow of live rust.


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