CENTAUR’S VISIT

Night. Moon, full.
In the stable, heat,
stale, dung, and alfalfa
commingle in humid air.
Nostrils flare, then close.
Flare again. Silently
practiced hands unlatch
the gate to the paint mare’s stall.
Hooves scuff and clop doorward then
clatter down concrete incline
toward turf silence.

Across meadow, abruptly over creek,
through rippled, purling stream,
up rock littered slope,
unshod hooves pursue shod,
beast nears beast until
stars stop wheeling overhead,
the moon freezes in place,
lathered flank meets lathered flank,
and human fingers curl mane
into tightening ringlets.



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Copyright © 2008 by Bradley Steffens

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