spooked
mustang shys and backs in a
close-walled canyon
stirrups banging on kettledrum ribs
half-sat on his haunches
like a pony at the rodeo
he listens with both ears
one pricked and one curled
for a Presence in afternoon shadow,
a god under water
impenetrable, salt-scummed
pricking fingers of greasewood
prod him, snorting,
out through stagnant pools
toward arms of the sun –
his instinct to keep moving
for in the country of his experience
where there is water
and shade overhang –
in each green temptation
a spirit of malice lives
© 1990 by Beth Stevens
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