A poem.

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'
 flat teeth,
 the long concave faces scoop the light.
  – Thomas Husson

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