by Ethel Mortenson Davis
She went to the great black first,
then the bay.
She had carrots
in one of her coat pockets.
“Which pocket?” she asked.
Their soft muzzles always
found the right one,
happy to munch the carrots.
Then one day
the black was gone,
his stall cleaned out,
and shovels put in his place.
“Where’s Dick?” she asked.
“He went to the fox farm because
ladies need fur coats,” he said.
The bay remained for
a number of years,
sleeping in the winter sun
with his head too low to the ground.
Then one day the bay too
was gone,
his great body and his work
folded into the fields
outside his window.
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