WEBVTT

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OK.

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The next poem, it's
another prose poem.

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It's called Afternoon,
Rillito Creek.

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So that's local, too.

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A tall girl in a red
windbreaker ducking

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as she enters the stables.

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A little awkward,
her arms full of hay.

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The sun feeds on her
close cropped hair.

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Inside, two horses stamping,
Charcoal blue mesquite,

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the haze of blond grass.

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West, along the river,
cottonwoods, a whole row

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of them, gaunt.

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One every 50 yards.

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Leafless, like a line
of dead presidents,

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their roots stopped,
curling back on themselves.

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The horses are
outside now, snorting,

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the shadows of their long
heads combing the stubble back

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and forth in the rusty light.

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