She stood on the rotten wood fence

enfolding grass and aged trees,

eyes chasing the horse

she promised father to stay away from,

the horse rears up, it’s dangerous, he says.

Cass is stubborn and black as the soil underneath.

The autumn breeze blows through his mane,

like the moss swinging from the trees.

Spotlights of sun reflect off a curved back,

as if a golden saddle lies upon him, coaxing.

The dogs are howling behind wired-fence,

all mutts of her grandmother’s collection,

signaling someone is crossing to the field.

From the back of the caving red barn, she watches

father fill the bathtub trough with water,

his hair flows long and gray like Cass’s,

skin worn by years of bricking homes.

While hiding, the sky distracts.

Her fingers slice through the air, hands like scissors

cutting a picture of Cass from the clouds,

She pinches him by the tail and places him

in the breast pocket of her flannel shirt.