After three days of fog and mist 
And a seeping gray drizzle 
That finally turned the horse pen
Into an endless muck deeply pocked 
By the horses' hooves 
And cut by the sliding grooves 
Where hard-edged feet 
Skidded toward traction on slight slopes, 

The evening sky offered something like hope: 
A rope thin slice of orange light
At the far edge of a heavy ledge
Of dark-domed shroud. 

It flared for a moment or two, 
Framing black-limbed trees 
Along the crest of the near ridge 
And burnishing the lower ripples of curdled clouds. 

I looked up from my scooping
At the small clusters of feathery light 
Stroked along the bruised scallops of the sky
Far above the crud-crusted wheelbarrow.

I steered my mind at least for a moment
Away from the narrow drudgery of chores
And smiled in the knowing
That even in the midst of clumped horse manure,
Gunked clay and dismal days,
There still hold peace, beauty, and hope, 

If one chooses to raise their gaze
Higher than their feet.

H. Arnett
12/27/24