In Hurricane, with Horses.

Sanders, Mark ; Sanders, Mark (American poet)

IN HURRICANE, WITH HORSES

   The man, gray-flannel shirt lifted overhead
   shielding him, strides long, alone in the blow--north
   then south, cold then hot. Who would think
   to count the rain, weightless, infinite, like slivers.

   He yells and whistles silence against the howl
   at six horses hunkered under oaks at pasture's end.
   All around the woods groan, their bones pop.
   The sky churns blackening butter.

   Waist-deep grass underfoot rolls flat
   as by waves upon a long shore. A loblolly pine
   collapses, its root ball like a molar;
   a wire tangle blossoms barb and spark.

   The horses circle upon the circle of themselves.
   He stands at their nervous center, an eye. Easy now,
   he coos, and slips the halter upon the oldest head,
   the one to lead the rest to shelter.

   Now unhurried nudge through rivers in air,
   as in the plodding cadence of high terrain,
   the rocky switchback. Pitch and plunge
   looming above them, clouds like cliffs ascend.