by Creed Kidney
The field whispers,
gossip,
thrown between the trees.
A newborn foal,
lies beside her mother,
skin, an arboreal red,
it twitches,
beneath the taught canvas.
She bats her eyes,
flicking her tail to
ward away
the flies;
they buzz about,
anxious to see
the baby.
I reach out my hand,
alone
in the field with them,
the little one looks up,
whinnying softly,
we sit in reverence of one another.
My hand is met
with the softness of a newborn filly,
her plush nose,
her warm breath,
the smell of the earth and
molasses.
Nutmeg and I,
cradled
in the daisies.