Slacking
A fat doe flirts her white rump and sails
over the fence into stubbled corn.
A depressed circle in the woodlot where she rests
when we don’t disturb her. The horned owl
has its nest. The redtail hawk circles.
The long winter at an end. We inspect
how many trees are down on the fenceline,
throttled by ice. If repair is warranted
at this time of our lives when taking it easy
Trumps. We drink our coffee black,
watch the birds cluster at the feeder,
the sky shake out its sheets of cloud,
the mayflies giddy in their moment.
Once It’s Over
Step into the arena of arabesques,
Engraved calligraphy of an invitation
Elaborate as a matador in a suit of lights.
The black bull lowers his head,
Flanks festooned with darts,
Already his big heart bleeds.
Dust gilds the afternoon
Of ole’s and promise. The moment of death
Honored as though it means
Something more than disappearance.
A body dragged off by horses.
A woman alone in her bed.
The posters rip in the harbor winds.
A jostling crowd fills the tavern
With songs to celebrate absence.
Songs to quiet the fear
That clots in footsteps
Heading home or elsewhere.
Joan Colby has been the editor of Illinois Racing News for over 25 years, a monthly publication for the Illinois Thoroughbred Breeders and Owners Foundation, published by Midwest Outdoors LLC. She lives with her husband and assorted animals on a small horse farm in Northern Illinois.
