Black horse, red barn,
fields pocked and steaming.
One white house then another, dull
as winter’s stained sky.
Here is a short road of declarations.
Look out the window as you drive by.
In every plot there’s a sink hole in which
secrets like manure lay decomposing.
Slow down as you pass by,
the horse is shaking dew off its mane.
Remember to bow your head.
There is a long history of animals watching.