THIS
The exhale of a horse steams up the imagination, relieves the tension
in my shoulders as Atlas sets the earth down for dinner.
The night is young and there is mischief afoot
The busy-squeak of a mouse shuffles the bush
climbs down into the trails under blackberry roots,
—an intelligence plays here
The mole, in its blind furry weaves
strength stirs under sod
tunnels beneath grass clumps
spy hops for air and direction
What cannot be seen is still there
Each to their own compass
in the midnights of existence
by Shannon Laws
