Echoing Sounds
The night rain has changed the mud.
Gone is the slick, slimy, surface
that skated me to the barn.
The new, thick, sticky, muck
pulls and tugs
at the heel of my boot
hoping my foot will slip from
the grip of rubber jacket standing between me and it.
Cats, black and gray like the mud
follow in my wake. The yellow one with the
white gloved paws threads between my legs.
A golden needle drawing my steps tighter,
sealing the hole of my stride to a stop.
He sits at my feet squinty eyed
with anticipatory ecstasy of a touch
and purrs. The mud cats run on.
"What kind of day is it for orange cats?" I ask,
squatting to run my hand down his length
before moving on.
My voice draws the horses in from the field
the mire making slurping sounds
licking
tasting
sucking their legs as a man would
suck the last morsels of meat
from the bones of beef.
I count their voices as they greet me.
Four, of the half dozen plus one, will speak
in signature sound all their own,
I press my ear to the morning air
listening for the voice of my mare -
her deep throated nicker my 15 yr companion.
She calls from her pine scented parlor.
Her belly's still full.
The bulging gray mass dangles from her spine,
an unopened cocoon
hiding the secret of another voice.
I lay my head against her side
listening to the sounds echoing within.
Gently rubbing her maternal mass
I speak to the unborn
telling it how the night rain has changed
the mud and soon will change you too.
Third Draft
4/4/00