47.2 - Spring 2018

Page 207

Horse and Puddle PETER KRUMBACH

I wish I were a short horse standing on a breezy slope somewhere in West Region, Ireland. I’d be the only horse who’d know he is really a human, a wish clad in dark bristles, as if seen by dragonflies. I’d clump to a rain puddle, lower my plush head to the surface, fascinated that while I sit in a wicker chair in California, I can make myself into what I now see in this country water, the brown eyes regarding themselves, lips curled, teeth bared out. In fact, I’d be so fascinated, I’d grow light, begin to drift off, the puddle reflecting less and less of me, until there’d be nothing left, not even the puddle, the hill, or the wind.

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