Peace murmurs from the frost-lanced branches
of the cottonwood tree lofting up above the corral
while low layers of pastel color slowly dance in the east
above the bare-branched ridge beyond the creek.

An unseen sun leaches the slightest hint of heat
into a gray-crested sky
while a pair of gaited paints send steaming breath
curling through the polished panels of the round pen.

I dump metered measures of pelletized feed
and a small handful of chopped alfalfa
into each horse’s mounted plastic trough,
chuckle to myself at their eager embrace of this routine.

It is not at all glory or grandeur so readily feeding and fueling
the absolute mundaneness of the body’s needs
that moves me toward this thanksgiving,
but rather a somber amazement that even a slight slip

on glazed gravel could completely unravel
the simple threads that keep us fed
and attend to more than daily bread
for ourselves and those that depend upon us.

A broken arm, a fractured hip,
and all that was taken for granted
becomes a cherished blessing:
wind-chapped lips breathe gratitude for every un-aching motion.

I halter the geldings, lead them
across the hard-packed driveway
to whatever remains of green in the small pasture
between the house and the highway.

I hang the ropes on galvanized hooks
screwed into the brace of the fence posts.
The horses head toward the near corner of the field
and I walk up the slight slope,

toward steaming fresh coffee and buttered rye toast.


H. Arnett
11/27/24