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
Want more? Join us at The Barn, our online training group with video sharing, audio blogs, live chats with Anna, and so much more. Or go to annablake.com to subscribe for email delivery of this blog, see the Clinic Schedule, or ask a question about the art and science of working with horses.
The bluster, more scary than the rain.
Yup, a wild world. Yikes, Lynell
Wonderful picture conjured up by this poem.
Thanks, Ruth.