Runaway Horses
On an September evening,
the moon has a tight lipped grin.
It's black night by eight-thirty
when a racket starts next door.
Peeling the last of a bushel of tomatoes
outside on the lit back porch, I hear a loud,
“Whoa. Whoa.” The farmer orders
his team to halt.
The wagon continues downhill.
Iron wheels clatter & clang.
A louder demand: “Whoa. Whoa.”
The piercing reply of snorts & squeals.
A shouted command:“Whoa. Whoa.”
Clanks, grates & thuds accelerate.
No turn into the farmyard & unharness.
Two screams from a girl.
Six careening steed roar past.
Loud clip-clops move closer.
Then clashcrashsmash--collision.
The runaway wagon stops.
Silence whips the darkness.
I breathe again when a man-speaks
& replies come in grunts & whinnies.
More calm demands of “Whoa. Whoa.”
Men & boys emerge from the famhouse to pick up,
they drag, heap & chunk pieces into metal piles.
Work horses nicker intermittent complaints.
Testimony of everyday work on a farm.
https://spillwords.com/runaway-horses/
Date of Publication: March, 25, 2026