Cottonwood Trees Along the Creek Bed

Cold blue-white skies

Straw stalks bitten down in the harvested field.

The horse barely whinnies in the low sun.

I snuggle down within the frozen roots and watch the teeth chomping,

Milk-soft lips, hoofs stepping one by one, pressing in the earth;
I'm quick; I move out of range and continue my surveillance.

Warm brown eyes and a forelock of course.

A low toss of a mane,

Moist breath white as smoke in the cold, 

A soft rumbling on the exhale.
No flies now, no swishing tails. 

Chomp, pull, grind, chomp, chomp pull..

I smell wet melting frost on the yellow ground.

I almost hear the cottonwoods along the partly frozen creek,

and the rusted iron wheel used to set the sluice gate.

White snow patches on the blue mountains, 

The evening star at last.

Southern Colorado