Spring Evening on Blind Mountain

I won't drink wine tonight

I want to hear what is going on

not in my own head

but all around me.

I sit for hours

outside our house on Blind Mountain.

Below this scrap of yard

across the ragged old pasture,

two horses move

pulling grass into their mouths, tearing up

wildflowers by the roots.

They graze shoulder to shoulder.

Every night they lean together in sleep.

Up here, there is no one

for me to fail.

You are gone.

Our children are sleeping.

I don't even have to write this down.