Dusk over hill, crickets starting up, breeze settling down.
Late swifts trace parabolas, tree to tree.
Saturn and Jupiter met at the edge—astral spectacle, you will return again. Steady as the world turns.
The world you made // why you made it.
Far afield, the horse I love.
Beautiful mare, black as a well-bottom, you moved through the world as if the open land only existed in relation to your moving.
What you were before, what a god!
Thundering through our veins, our virtues overrun us. Who made us strong anyway… ?
Clouds drag themselves eastward. Scorched sunflowers sway into ghosts, leaves chittering warnings.
The nations rise and fall, the nations writhe.
Too much of a good thing. Perhaps freedom isn’t so great after all… ?
Animal, I see you suffering so, bones breaking down as time takes its turn. The worst wounds, invisible.
Put that damn horse out of its misery already.
Dust to dust, breeze nickering through the field.
You bring all things low, every last beast and cold winter moon.
The grief we feel over every lost kingdom.
The world we made // why we made it.
The bare tree on the hill croaks out riddles, puzzles lacing up the stars.
The door in the night, the fading light—that we are at our end.
And still the tree stands.