Thoughts of Horses During Sunday Feed

by C. Hiatt O’Connor

A place of dirt and horses
is not where I worship, but where I offer 
the granular body; where I bring
libations of water from the well.
This is not for them
a communion. 
I often wonder 
Who or What first took a hand 
of ochre clay from the creek below the field
and cupped it into sloping sides,
smoothed the flanks, 
braided the chords of muscle, 
capped the tender still-wet legs
with bits of shale?
I wonder 
Who or What 
first thumbed the hollow spaces 
into their skulls
to inlay the mica of the eyes?
Maybe there was no Hand
but only Horses 
all the way down. Maybe 
it’s shale shoes forever –
the creekshimmer of their eyes 
that selfsame glint
as the false oblivion around every star.

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