of horses,
ghosts resting in heat,
the muffled hooves
turning from the sun.
Here
where the smell of pine is thick,
I rest beneath this tree
holding broken flint.
Eyes closed,
I see a woman grinding corn
in a round stone basin
and soft feet hit earth
dry as the air.
In the breeze
are the sounds of this man
chipping stone,
his old knees bent
and birds
falling
down his mind.