Dusk Right before darkness slips on
the field, I walk the fence line,
split apples in hand, clicking
my tongue a familiar sound
the horses recognize.
The heads move higher, deliberate
steps thud earth close to the wire,
their nostrils quiver over the scent
of Empire apples, still ready to bolt
at indiscretion, despite the offer.
The setting sun sends a stream of light,
red as apple skins circling white flesh,
dark seeds couched in tough shell casings
snap between the horses'
the long concave faces scoop the light.
– Thomas Husson
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