Colt

By Tyler Kline

Birds call the snip silver,

 

bullet casing in mud gold.

The colt’s eyes lead.

 

Old wind will teach the new –

 

start by running

end by running,

 

that is how you will catch yourself.

 

From tree line

 

a horse is just another one of us

that can’t fly. Story

not of wing

 

but of arrows

 

drawn around hearts

so never to be soft again.

 

Of straw spoiling red,

bottles erect like fathers.

Pause shuts the kitchen window.

 

The many times after,

 

shot never heard

over the storm.

___

Tyler Kline balances his time between working on an organic vegetable farm and studying English at The University of Delaware. A Pushcart Prize nominee, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in Saint Katherine Review, Rust + Moth, and San Pedro River Review.


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