Dug out the deep hole
with rock bars and shovels
along the shade tree path
while the herd was in lower
fields, and left the rifle in the truck
because people believed
horses know intentions,
and the ancient Paso Fino,
too sick for the molasses
we dripped on grain and in water,
came and stood over the grave
when it was still morning,
waited there past lunch,
like a blinking statue,
never swatting a fly,
never pawing the fill dirt
mounded above the hole
we had left open to sun
in case that warmth
touched him when he fell.
--Aaron Ballance
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