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The Horses are Fighting


They stand scattered and not
facing each other. Like black-eyed
susans lining the highway, or sisters
angry in some small kitchen.

The goats traipse a diagonal
through knee-high meadow,
following head to tail. Then
one decides to feed. Suddenly
they are strangers.

But how elegant these animals
seem after your funeral, each
quiet despite a whole field,
content with any fresh mouthful.


Jill Osier

Green Mountains Review

Volume XXV, No. 2


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