It charges up in the summer, and bites;

the wind throws dust that ricochets off your teeth

and stings your eyes;

so you stay, standing in the lean-to with the horses

listening to the howl and the deafening pulse on the roof,

counting between the rain that dashes

and shatters in the dirt outside,

until it heads south in front of a sunlight tail;

so you sit and listen to the echo

and the small noises of the ground after a storm,

dazed by oases of water-filled hoofprints.


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