by Ethel Mortenson Davis
The dominant horse
acted queer:
Ran around in a circle
in his pasture,
finally resting near
a black clump
on the ground.
The black clump moved
every once in awhile.
It was the black dog
that ran wild
along our fence.
He had been shot
and had gotten
as far as the horses,
trying to get home.
What happened next
took my breath away.
The horse stayed
near the dog,
nuzzling with it’s soft lips,
going over and over it’s body
for a long period of time
until there was no movement.
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