Wendell Hawken / Matthew Klein photo
September pitch-black mornings I leave the lights off
so I can see to find my horse out in his field,
his flat black shape darker than the dark.
Rope and halter in one hand, ankle-deep in tall grass dew,
I walk to where he might be – beside his rock outcrop,
or rump up to his poplar.
A last few crickets sound like memory,
so faint I pause to listen –
yes, it’s not my mind. And so many stars.
There are people who can name each Castor Pollux cluster
and take their tiny boats to navigate the vast
black holes of thought through clouds of dust and gasses,
spinning disks of planets circling a star to say we come
from hydrogen, helium, exploding stars –
and new science is not just genius but the luck of being
in the right field at the right time with a lead shank in one hand
after trudging through morning mist to whistle,
listen for a horse’s sigh, the tear his teeth give grass,
rustle of his hooves as he steps out of the fog, as, any second now,
my horse will, and set his nose against my hand
and let himself be found.
Posted August 27, 2020
This poem is from Wendell Hawken’s latest collection, Stride for Stride: A Country Life. Books are available from the author.