Nightfall in this hellish warehouse
The burrowing hen stuffs its face in hay
the stallion snuffs at the pole
the branches break as the gliding door opens
within this transition of a crows flight and its landing
you feel the breathe of the mist capture your hand like a cloak
your bundle of midnight dew collecting at your throat
Your feel as though the barn animals and the horses do not feel your pain
they can only soothe it.