A quarter horse, no rider canters through the pasture thistles raise soft purple burrs her flanks are shiny in the sun I whistle and she runs almost sideways toward me the oats in my hand are sweets to her: dun mane furling in its breeze, her neck corseted with muscle, wet teeth friendly against my hand - how can I believe you ran under a low maple limb to knock me off? | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DAY-DREAM: MORAL by ALFRED TENNYSON THE LAST MAN: METAPHOR OF RAIN by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES PSALM 92 by OLD TESTAMENT BIBLE THE PASSING OF THE TRAIL by CHARLES BADGER CLARK JR. OUT OF THE SHADOWS: AN UNFINISHED SONNET-SEQUENCE 17 by JOSEPH SEAMON COTTER JR. |