I caught a whiff of spring in the air, and with it a longing for how it felt to paint at the ranch. Here, some words in honor of the horses,

The boys jostle in their harnesses,

spring warming their shoulders.

From their stalls, the young lady whinnies and the old man withers.

Their driver steers their impatience.

In response to his calm, there is a flicker

when containment is entertained.

But we are all too eager at our bits,

muscles, poised to work,

rippling motions under thick coats

kids punching in the the lunch line.

Grandma Moses, even Picasso failed to inform me

of the flesh, its intent and warmth.