Steam rises from manure-and-straw
heaped on cold stone between the stalls,
and steam from the men
whose breath ghosts the air
as they pitch forkfuls at the gaping truck.
An impressionist would make guile
of this: brown, flaxen and gold;
round and angular;
the men in gray jumpsuits stretching
and bending; the sunlight lamé of wet straw.
Minded narrowly in wooden stalls,
twelve horses stretch black rubber anuses
to dump what the men
will cart away.
Renewal is the profit and drudgery of their chore.
I watch the younger man sling manure
overhead with a curt flick-of-the-wrist,
his pale lashes dusted
with paler flecks, as farmer’s ore rains
onto the truck, and he whistles up an orient of light.