This is my field. There are many like it, but this one is mine.
Without me, my horse is nothing. Without my horse,
my field grows toward disrepair.
Severance pay or something like it
nearly as thrilling. Near the thrill that builds
when fingertips slip across the tips of blades of grass
skipping airfoil against cold dew and night black
droplets of blood cooler to the touch than its ever been
before Winter stole contrast out of the ground's heart.