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