poem by Denise C. Banker

All one thing

A field sloped 

to form a gully

along bottom land;

water gathered 

in spring,

wild poppies,

red and orange, 

clotted in among shy-green

blades of buffalo grass.

Life maintained the mare

there, or so we thought,

confined, as we are 

in our minds,

and we delighted

somewhere deeper.

At one time 

horses crowded

a field 

Presence leapt

and ran; nudged

and hid. 

Pranced alone,

too, and bucked

at branches, 

wild in the wind.

And we saw 

all that we saw 

was us. 

And, grimly, we 

kept moving 

in our direction

along the indifferent 

footpath.