We drove out of town in the gold Vega
to feed the horses.
Gravel clicked beneath our feet, and
the smell of damp wheat made our pulses speed.
Barn swallows circled in the sky,
sipped the air beside the high barn spire.
A robin sat on a barbwire fence
watching us
drinking in some slanted rays of sun.

The sun was sinking and we knew
we'd need our jackets in an hour or so.
It was the turning time of day. 

We walked to the white shed with
a silver pail and turned the nail. 
Dusty oats filled the pail and we coughed,
turning to each other.
The horses waited by the fence,
two necks pressed against the barbed wire.
We stroked their necks as they chomped the oats
and flicked their tails at flies.
We stood a long while watching the horses,
feeding.