Draft Breeds

Draft Breeds

Stand so heavy,
bearing your own weight on thick legs,
fringed with hair.
Time for a trim.
Golden, dark, grey...
Brown eyes washed with effort.
Effort always. You get used to it.
We get used to it.
Disbelieving gaze, or maybe accepting,
More like numb, to words of faint praise.
A clean line there, a certain slow grace...
It’s rare to find someone who appreciates the plow-horse,
The farmer who treasured is long extinct.
And some of us serve no real purpose.
We’re relics.
Shift.
Hips move, one leg coming to rest on a toe.
Lean against the wooden railing,
And watch.
Always watch. Look there.
Prancers, stepping so trim and gleaming,
Polished and primped, groomed to a shine.
Sunday best.
Flash the silver of their heels, jingle the bits borne.
Arched necks, arching brows, arch looks.
What? I’m only standing here.
Snort for what reason? Rolled eyes?
A sigh gusts from lungs, ribs rising and falling.
Lean against rail.
The breeze cools, the sun warms, seeping into hide.
The scent of old, soul-warmed wood and dry grass.
Somehow, dandelions nod, and foxtails wave.
Rustle and bend in the wind. Can you smell,
You, with the oily shine clogging your nose?
We can.
Shift.
Hips move, one leg flattening to take the weight of being.
The toe of the other scuffs against plank.
Shoulders roll, arms clasping elbows.
The vague wind plucks fitfully at brown mane,
Tickling hair against new-sensitive skin of neck and nape.
Cropped at the behest of others.