The heavy black bulk of the draft horse

lay in the heat, circled by lime. Too huge

to bury, it was left for flies, night animals.

We walked around the gleaming hill

of its flanks, the nostrils tulip-blue,

tiny terrain of the pink gums,

belly mushrooming sweetness.

Too timid to touch this mystery

we were old enough to know

this was his final

beauty, this laying out

on meadow grass, beside aspen.

That very afternoon we had chased the Holsteins

home, their full udders sloshing

warm milk on us as they ran,

their gentle lowing a quiet happiness.

Elderberries and wild raspberries

had caught at our skirts

as we trotted toward the old farmhouse

where Mrs. Chesrown was scrubbing the milk buckets

in the hot sudsy water and the final light.

Sun glinting on a black coat:

twilight closing over earth,

a time of evening that pinches.

I glanced across at my pigtailed twin

as we re-entered the gate of the farmyard.

She had grown this summer and her knees

looked knobbier, her legs, gangly.

Her face said: You too, you too.