A touch of fire singes the fringes
Of the fraying edges of a cold gray day
In the corner of Kansas.

Thin bits of ice glaze the rails of the round pen
Where the pair of geldings send steaming breath
Into the last shreds
Of chopped alfalfa and pelletized grain
Held in heavy buckets
Above the mud and muck of three days of drizzle.
Dark specks along their backs and flanks
Mark the few drops of rain
That came in mid afternoon.

A northern wind sends thoughts of winter
Splintering through the last hours
Of the last Sunday in October
While freeze-wilted leaves droop
Below the branches of maple and mulberry
In the paddock beyond the stable.

Walking back toward the house,
I look again out past the ridge
Where hardwoods trace black silhouettes
Against the glowing sky.

Beauty has often softened
The harsher lines of Truth
And offered proof that there is Light
Beyond the cutting edge of every storm.

H. Arnett
10/29/23