The draft horses galloped out of the barn
and down the fence line, stood on their hind
legs, pawing the air with teeth bared, then
threw their heads down, stretched low to nip
at each other’s hooves as the thunder whispered
to a boom. Flashing violence, the clouds blew
the sky a greenish purple, scattering untouched
hay, running the day’s heat to cold, and forcing
birds to shelter between hay bales. An hour of
bluster exchanged for a scarce spit of rain. Then
dread rolled on with the clouds to the east, and
in the residual darkness, the slow hum of chewing.
Anna Blake at Infinity Farm
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