I open the corral gate to a new day andthe white pony of hope gallops out long legged.
Both of us are throwing back our heads, pressing our knees to the mud, praising the sun.
But shadows grow long, and the sickle of sorrow makes the grass lie down. Things are never what we expect.
Already you can see the buzzards circling. The coltâ€™s rib bones, like twelve new moons, make white silhouettes against the greening grass.
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