Let loose in the pasture, bays, chestnuts, grays,

and paints graze beneath blue skies, their coats

shining like copper pots. And scattered around

their feet, creeping buttercups, yellow as freshly

grated lemon zest — each petal clustered around

the center, creating a corolla of color so dazzling,

they rival the sun’s golden light. And it is quiet

here, the way a room is quiet but not silent, with

the sporadic whinnies and wickers of contented

horses, the buzzing of bees, the croaking of frogs

in a nearby creek — a low hum of pleasing sounds.

But it is mostly about the light, this idyllic scene,

how bright it shines on a horse’s satiny skin, how

all the flowers cup their yellow palms to catch it.

— Terri Kirby Erickson

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